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A DAUGHTER OF HETH 


* - CHAPTER I. 
coquette’s ARRIVAL. 

# The tide of battle had flowed onward from the vil- 
lage to the Manse. The retreating party, consisting of 
the Minister’s five sons, were driven back by fair force of 
numbers, contesting every inch of the ground. Hope 
had deserted them ; and there now remained but one 
chance — to reach the fortress of the Manse in safety, 
and seek the shelter of its great stone wall. 

The enemy numbered over a dozen, and the clangor 
and clamor of the pursuit waxed stronger as they pressed 
on the small and compact body of five. The weapons 
on both sides were stones picked up from the moorland 
road : and the terrible aim of the Whaup* — the eldest 
of the Minister’s sons — had disfigured more than one 
mother’s son of the turbulent crowd that pursued. He 
alone — a long-legged Herculean lad of eighteen — kept 
in front of his retreating brothers, facing the foe boldly, 
and directing his swift, successive discharges with a 
deadly accuracy of curve upon the noses of the fore- 
most. But his valor was of no avail. All seemed over. 

*Anglice , the Lapwing or Green Plover, a wild and shy bird, loving up- 
lying lands near the sea. 


2 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

Their courage began to partake of the recklessness of 
despair. Nature looked as though she sympathized with 
this disastrous fate ; and to the excited eyes of the fugi- 
tives it appeared that the sun was overcast — that the 
moor around was blacker and more silent than ever — 
and that the fair stretch of the sea, with the gloomy 
hills of Arran, had grown dark as with a coming storm. 
Thus does the human mind confer an anthropomorphic 
sentiment on all things, animate and inanimate ; a pro- 
found observation which occurred to Mr. Aineas Gilles- 
pie, the schoolmaster, who, being on one occasion in the 
town of Ayr, when horse-racing or s ome such godless* 
diversion was going forward, and having meekly inquired 
for some boiled eggs in a very small and crowded hos- 
telry, the young woman in charge indignantly exclaimed 
“ Losh bless me ! Do you think tfie hens can remem- 
ber to lay eggs in all this bustle and hurry ? ” 

Finally, the retreating party turned and ran— igno- 
miniously, pell-mell — until they had gained the high 
stone wall surrounding the Manse. They darted into 
the garden, slammed the door to, and barricaded it ; the 
Whaup sending up a peal of defiant laughter that made 
the solemn echoes of the old-fashioned house ring again. 
Outside this shriek of joy was taken as a challenge, and 
the party on the other side of the wall returned a roar 
of mingled mockery and anger which was not pleasant 
to hear. It meant a blockade and bombardment, with 
perhaps a fierce assault when the patience of the be- 
seigers should give way. But the Whaup was not of a 
kind to indulge in indolent security when his enemies 
were murmuring hard by. In an incredibly short space 
of time he and his brothers had wheeled up to the wall 
a couple of empty barrels, and across these was hurriedly 
thrown a broad plank. The Whaup filled his hands with 
the gravel of the garden walk, and jumped up on the 
board. The instant that his head appeared above the 
wall there was a yell of execration. He ha*v just time 
to discharge his two handfuls of gravel upon the be- 
siegers, when a shower of stones was directed at him, 
and he ducked his head. 


A DAUGHTER OR HE TIE 


3 


“ This is famous ! ” he cried. “ This is grand ! It 
beats Josephus ! Mair gravel, Jock — mair gravel, Jock ! ” 

Now in the Manse of Airlie there was an edition of 
Josephus’s works, in several volumes, which was the 
only profane reading allowed to the boys on Sunday. 
Consequently it was much studied — especially the plates 
of it ; and one of these plates represented the siege of 
Jerusalem, with the Romans being killed by stones thrown 
from the wall. No sooner, therefore had the Whaup mount- 
ed on the empty barrels, than his brothers recognized the 
position. They were called upon to engage in a species 
of warfare familiar to them. They swiftly formed them- 
selves into line, and handed up to the Whaup successive 
supplies of stones and gravel, with a precision they could 
not have exceeded had they actually served in one of 
the legions of Titus. 

The Whaup, however, dared not discharge his ammu- 
nition with regularity. He had to descend to feints ; for 
he was in a most perilous position, and might at any 
time have had his head rendered amorphous. He there- 
fore from time to time showed his hand over the wall ; 
the expected volley of stones followed, and then he sprang 
up to return the compliment with all his might. Howls 
of rage greeted each of his efforts ; and, indeed, the 
clangor rose to an extraordinary pitch. The besiegers 
were furious. They were in an open position, while their 
foe was well intrenched ; and no man or boy can get a 
handful of gravel pitched into his face and also preserve 
his temper. Revenge was out of the question. The 
sagacious Whaup never appeared when they expected 
him ; and when he did appear, it was an instantaneous 
up and down, giving them no chance at all of doing him 
an injury. They raved and stormed, and the more 
bitterly they shouted names at him, and the more fiercely 
they heaped insults upon him, the more joyously he 
laughed. The noise, without and within, was appalling ; 
never, in the memory of man, had such an uproar re- 
sounded around th4 quiet Manse of Airlie. 

Suddenly there was a scared silence within the walls, 


4 A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 

and a rapid disappearance of the younger of the be- 
seiged. 

“ Oh, Tam, here’s our faither ! ” cried one. 

But Tam — elsewhere named the Whaup — was too 
excited to hear. He was shouting and laughing, hurling 
gravel and stones at his enemies, when, — 

When a tall, stern-faced, gray-haired man, who wore 
a rusty black coat and a white neckcloth, and who bore 
in his hand, ominously, a horsewhip, walked firmly and 
sedately across the garden. The hero of the day was 
still on the barrels, taunting his foes, and helping him- 
self to the store of ammunition which his colleagues had 
piled upon the plank. 

M Who’s lang-leggit now ? Where are the Minister’s 
chickens now ? Why don’t you go and wash your noses 
in the burn ? ” 

The next moment the Whaup uttered what can only 
be described as a squeal. He had not been expecting 
an attack from the rear ; and there was fright as well 
as pain in the yell which followed the startling cut 
across the legs which brought him down. In fact, the 
lithe curl of the whip around his calves was at once a 
mystery and a horror, and he tumbled rather than jumped 
from the plank, only to find himself confronted by his 
father, whose threatening eye and terrible voice soon 
explained the mystery. 

“ How daur ye, sir,” exclaimed Mr. Cassilis* — “ how 
daur ye, sir, transform my house into a Bedlam ! For 
shame, sir, that your years have brought ye no more 
sense than to caper wi’ a lot of schoolboys. Have ye no 
more respect for yourself — have ye no respect for the 
college you have come home from — than to behave your 
self like a farm-callant, and make yourself the by word of 
the' neighborhood? You are worse than the youngest 
in the house — ” 

“ I didn’t know you were in the Manse,” said the 
Whaup, wondering whither his brothers had run. 

“ So much the worse — so much the worse,” said the 
Minister, severely, “ that ye have no better guide to your 
conduct than the fear o’ being caught. Why, sir, when 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


5 


I was your age I was busier with my Greek Testament 
than with flinging names at a wheen laddies ! ” 

“ It was mair than names, as ye might hae observed 
from their noses, had ye seen them, ,, remarked the 
Whaup, confidentially. 

Indeed, he was incorrigible, and the Minister turned 
away. His eldest son had plenty of brains, plenty of 
courage, and an excellent physique ; but he could not be 
brought to acquire a sense of the proper gravity or duties 
of manhood, nor yet coufd he be prevailed on to lay 
aside the mischievous tricks of his youth. He was the 
terror of the parish. It was hoped that a winter at 
Glasgow University would tame down the Whaup ; but 
he returned to Airlie worse than ever, and formed his 
innocent brothers into a regular band of marauders, of 
whom all honest people were afraid. The long-legged 
dare-devil of the Manse, with his boldness, his cunning 
and his agility, left neither garden nor farmyard nor 
kitchen alone. Worthy villagers were tripped up by 
bits of invisible twine. Mysterious knocks on the win- 
dow woke them up at the dead of night. When they 
were surprised that the patience of their setting hen did 
not meet with its usual reward, they found that chalk 
eggs had been substituted for the natural ones. Their 
. cats came home with walnut-shells on their feet. Stable 
doors were mysteriously opened. Furious bulls were 
found lassoed, so that no man dare approach them. The 
work of the Whaup was everywhere evident — it was 
always the Whaup. And then that young gentleman 
would come quietly into the villagers’ houses, and chat 
confidentially with them, and confide to them his great 
grief that his younger brother Wattie — notwithstanding 
that people thought him a quiet, harmless, -pious, and 
rather sneaking boy — was such a desperate liand for 
mischief. Some believed him ; others reproached him 
for his wickedness in blaming his own sins upon the only 
one of the Minister’s family who had an appearance of 
Christian humility and grace. 

When the Minister had gone into the house, the 
Whaup— in nowise downcast by his recent misfortune, 


6 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


although he still was aware of an odd sensation about 
the legs — mounted once more upon the barrels to re- 
connoitre the enemy. He had no wish to renew the 
fight, for Saturday was his father’s day for study and 
meditation ; no stir or sound was allowed in the place 
from morning till night ; and certainly, had the young 
gentlemen of the Manse known that their father was 
indoors, they would have let the village boys rave out- 
side in safety, Cool and confident as he was, the 
Whaup did not care to bring his father out a second 
time; and so he got up on the barricades merely for the 
sake of information. 

The turmoil outside had quieted down, partly through 
the ignominious silence of the besieged, and partly 
through the appearance of a new object of public at- 
tention. The heads of the dozen lads outside were now 
turned towards the village, whence there was coming 
along the road the Minister’s dog-cart, driven by his an- 
cient henchman, Andrew Bogue. Beside the driver 
sat some fair creature in fluttering white and blue — an 
apparition that seldom met the vision of the inhabitants 
of Airlie. The Whaup knew that this young lady was 
his cousin from France, who was now, being an orphan, 
and having completed her education, coming to live at 
the Manse. But who was the gentleman behind, who 
sat with his arm flung carelessly over the bar, while he 
smiled and chatted to the girl, who had half turned 
around to listen to him ? 

“ Why, it is Lord Earlshope,” said the Whaup, with 
his handsome face suddenly assuming a frown. “ What 
business has Earlshope to talk to my cousin ?” 

Presently the gentleman let himself down from the 
dog-cart, topk off his hat to her who had been his com- 
panion, and turned and went along the road again. The. 
dog-cart drove up to the door. The Whaup, daring his 
enemies to touch him, went out boldly, and proceeded 
to welcome the new-comer to Airlie. 

“ I suppose you are my cousin,” he said, 

"•I suppose I am,” said the young girl, speaking 
with an accent so markedly French that he looked at 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


7 


her in astonishment. But then she, in turn, regarded 
him for a moment with a pair of soft dark eyes, and he 
forgot her accent. He vaguely knew that she had 
smiled to him — and that the effect of looking at her 
eyes was rather bewildering — as he assisted her down 
from the dog-cart, and begged her to come in through 
the garden. 


CHAPTER II. 
coquette’s religion. 

The Whaup was at once convinced that he had 
never seen upon earth, nor yet in his Sunday morning 
dreams of what heaven might be like, any creature half 
so beautiful and bewitching and graceful as the young 
girl who now walked beside him. Yet he could not 
tell in what lay her especial charm ; for, regarding her 
with the eye of a critic, the Whaup observed that she 
was full of defects. Her face was pale and French 
looking ; and, instead of the rosy bloom of a pretty 
country lass, there was a tinge of southern sun-brown 
over her complexion. Then her hair was in obvious 
disorder — some ragged ends of silky brown being scat- 
tered over her forehead, and surmounted, in Sir Peter 
Lely fashion, by a piece of dark blue silk ribbon ; while 
there were big masses behind that only partially revealed 
a shapely sunburnt neck. Then her eyes, though they 
were dark and expressive, had nothing of the keen and 
merry look of your bouncing country belle. Nor was 
there anything majestic in her appearance; although, 
to be sure, she walked with an ease and grace which 
gave even to an observer a sense of suppleness and 
pleasure. Certainly it was not her voice which had 
capfivated him, for when he at first heard her absurd 
accent he had nearly burst out laughing. Not with- 


8 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


standing all which, when she turned the pale, pretty, 
foreign face to him, and said, with a smile that lit up 
the dark eyes and showed a glimpse of pearly teeth, 
“It, rains not always in your country, then ? ”he re- 
marked no stiffness in her speech, but thought she spoke 
in music. He could scarcely answer her. He had al- 
ready succumbed to the spell of the soft eyes and the 
winning voice that had earned for this young lady, when 
she was but four years of age, the unfair name of Co- 
quette. 

“ Do you know Lord Earleshope ? ” he said abruptly. 

She turned to him with a brief glance of surprise. 
It seemed to him that every alteration in her manner — 
and every new position of her figure — was an improve- 
ment. 

“ That gentleman who did come with us ? No ; I do 
not know him.” 

“You were talking to him as if you did know him 
very well,” said the Whaup, sternly. He was beginning 
to suspect this cousin of his of being a deceitful young- 
person. 

“ I had great pleasure of .speaking to him. He speaks 
French — ‘he is very agreeable.” 

“ Look here,” said the Whaup, with a sudden knit- 
ting of his brow, “ I won’t have you talk to Earlshope, 
if you live in this house. Now, mind ! ” 

“ What ! ” she cried, with a look of amused wonder ; 
“I do think you are jealous of me already. You will 
make me — what is it called ? vaniteuse. Is it not a 
lark ! ” 

She smiled as she looked with rather a surprised air 
at her new cousin. The Whaup began to recall German 
legends of the devil appearing in the shape of a beautiful 
woman. 

“ Ladies in this country don’t use expressions like that,” 
said he ; adding scornfully, “ If that is a French custom, 
you’d better forget it.” 

“Is it not right to say ‘ a lark ?’ ” she asked gravely. 
“ Papa used to say that, and mamma and I got much of 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


9 


our English from him. I will not say it again, if you 
wish.” 

“ Did you call it English ? ” said the Whaup, with 
some contempt. 

At this moment the Minister came out from the door 
of the Manse, and approached his niece. She ran to him, 
took both his hands in hers, and then suddenly, and some- 
what to his discomfiture, kissed him ; while in the excite- 
ment of the moment she forgot to speak her broken 
English, and showered upon him a series of pretty phrases 
and questions in French. 

“ Dear me ! ” he observed, in a bewildered way. 

“ Sheris a witch,” said the Whaup to himself, stand- 
ing by, and observing with an angry satisfaction that 
this incomprehensible foreigner, no matter what she did 
or said, was momentarily growing more graceful. The 
charm of her appearance increased with every new look 
of her face, with every new gesture of her head. And 
then — when she seemed to perceive that her uncle had 
not understood a word of her tirade — and when, with a 
laugh and blush, she threw out her pretty hands in a 
dramatic way, and gave ever so slight a shrug with her 
shoulders — the picture of her confusion and embarrass- 
ment was perfect. 

“ Oh, she is an actress — I hate actresses ! ” said the 
Whaup. 

Meanwhile his cousin recovered herself and began to 
translate into stiff and curious English ( watching her 
pronunciation carefully) the rapid French she had been 
pouring out. But her uncle interrupted her, and said, — 

“ Come into the house first my bairn, and we will have 
the story of your journey afterwards. Dear me, I began 
to think ye could speak nothing but that unintelligible 
Babel o’ a tongue.” 

So he led her into the house, the Whaup following ; 
and Catherine Cassilis, whom they had been taught by 
letter to call Coquette, looked around upon her new home. 

She was the only daughter of the Minister’s only bro- 
ther a young man who had left Scotland in his teens, 
and never returned. He had been such another as the 


IO 


A DAUGHTER OF J/E 77/. 


Whaup in his youth, only that his outrages upon the de 
corum of his native village had been of a somewhat more 
serious kind. His family were very glad when he went 
abroad ; and when they did subsequently hear of him, 
they heard no good. Indeed, a very moderate amount 
of wildishness became something terrible when rumored 
through the quiet of Airlie ; and the younger Cassilis 
was looked on as the prodigal son, whom no one was an- 
xious should return. At length the news came that 
he had married some foreign woman — and this put a 
climax to his wickedness. It is true that the captain of 
a Greenock ship, having been at St. Nazaire, had there 
met Mr. Cassilis, who had taken his countryman home 
to his house, some few milles farther along the banks of 
the Loire. The c'aptain carried to Greenock and to Airlie 
the news that the Minister’s brother was the most fortu- 
nate of men. The French lady he had married was of 
the most gracious temperament and had the sweetest 
looks. She had brought her husband a fine estate on the 
Loire, where he lived like a foreign prince, not like the 
brother of a parish minister. They had a daughter — an 
elf, a fairy, with dark eyes and witching ways — who 
lisped French with the greatest ease in the world. Old 
Gavin Cassilis, the minister, heard, and was secretly re- 
joiced. He corresponded, in his grave and formal fash- 
ion/ with his brother; but he would not undertake a voy- 
age to a country that had abandoned itself to infidelity. 
The Minister knew no France but the France of the 
Revolution time ; and so powerfully had he been im- 
pressed in his youth by the stories of the worship of the 
Goddess of Reason, that, while the ancient languages 
were asTamiliar to him as his own, while he knew enough 
of Italian to read the “ Inferno,” and had mastered even 
the technicalities of the German theologians, nothing 
would ever induce him to study French, It was a lan- 
guage abhorred — it had lent itself to the most monstrous 
apostasy of recent times. 

The mother and father of Coquette died within y a few 
hours of each other, cut off by a fever which was raging 
over the south of France; and the girl, according to 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIJ. 


II 


their wish, was sent to a school in the neighborhood, 
where she remained until she was eighteen. She was 
then transferred to the care of her only living relative — 
Mr.’ Gavin Cassilis, the parish minister of Airlie. She 
had never seen anything of Scotland or of her Scotch 
relations. The life that awaited her was quite unknown 
to her. She had no dread of the possible consequences 
of removing her thoroughly southern nature into the 
chillier social atmosphere of the north. So far, indeed, 
her journey had been a pleasant one ; and she saw noth- 
ing to make her apprehensive of the future. She had 
been met at the railway station by the Minister’s man, 
Andrew ; but she had no opportunity of noticing his 
more than gloomy temperament, or the scant civility he 
was inclined to bestow on a foreign jade who was dressed 
so that all the men turned and looked at her as though 
she had been a snare of Satan. For they had scarcely 
left the station, and were making their way upward to 
the higher country, when they ovei took Lord Earlshope, 
who was riding leisurely along. Andrew — much as he 
contemned the young nobleman, who had not the best of 
reputations* in the district — touched his cap, as in duty 
bound. His lordship glanced with a look of surprise 
and involuntary admiration at the young lady who sat on 
the dog-cart ; and then rode forward, and said, — 

“ May I have the pleasure of introducing myself to 
Mr. Cassilis’s niece ? I hope I am not mistaken.” 

With a frankness which appalled Andrew — who con- 
sidered this boldness on the part of an unmarried wo- 
man to be indicative of the licentiousness of French 
manners, whereas it was but the natural expression of 
that happy and audacious freedom from restraint which 
the girl was now glad to experience — the young lady re- 
plied ; and in a few minutes Lord Earlshope had suc- 
ceeded in drawing her into a pleasant conversation in 
her own tongue. Nay, when they had reached Earlshope 
nothing would do for the fair-haired young gentleman 
but that Miss Cassilis must enter the gate and drive 
through the park, which ran parallel with the road. He 
himself was forced to leave his horse with the lodge- 


12 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


keeper, the animal having become mysteriously lame on 
coming up the hill ; but, with a careless apology and a 
laugh, he had jumped on the dog-cart behind, and begged 
Andrew for a “ lift ” as far as the Manse. 

Andrew thought it was none of his business. Had 
his companion been an ordinarily sober and discreet 
young woman, he would not have allowed her to talk so 
familiarly with this graceless young nobleman, but, said 
the Minister’s man to himself, they were well met. 

“They jabbered away in their foreign lingo,” said 
Andrew that evening to hi-s wife Leezibeth, the house- 
keeper, “ and I’m thinking it was siccan a language was 
talked in Sodom and Gomorrah. And he was a’ smiles, 
and she was a’ smiles; and they seemed to think nae 
shame o’ themselves, goin’ through a decent country- 
side. It’s a dispensation, Leezibeth ; that’s what it is 
— a dispensation — this hussy coming amang us wi’ her 
French silks and her satins, and her deevlish license o’ 
talkin’ like a play-actor.” 

“ Andrew, my man,” said Leezibeth, with a touch of 
spite (for she had become rather a partisan of the stranger) 
“ she’ll no be the only lang tongue we hae in the parish. 
And what ails ye at her talking, if ye dinna understand 
it ? As for her silks and her satins, the Queen on the 
throne couldna set them off better.” 

“ Didna I tell ye ! ” said Andrew, eagerly, “ the car- 
nal eye is attracted already. She has cuist her wiles 
owre ye, Leezibeth. It’s a temptation.” 

“ Will the body be quiet ! ” said Leezibeth, with ris- 
ing anger. “ He’s fair out o’ his wits to think that a wo- 
man come to my time o’ life should be thinking o’ silks 
and satins for mysel’. ’Deed, Andrew, there’s no much 
fear o’ my spending siller on finery, when ye never see 
a bawbee without running for an auld stocking to put it 
in ! ” 

Oddly enough, Andrew was the only one of them 
who apprehended any evil from the arrival of the young 
girl who had come to pass her life among people very 
dissimilar from herself. The simplicity and frankness of 
her manner towards Earlshope he exaggerated into no- 


A DAUGHTER of he th. 


thing short of license ; and his “ dour ” imagination had 
already perceived in her some strange resemblance to 
the Scarlet Woman, the Mother of Abominations, who 
sat on the seven hills and mocked at the saints. Andrew 
was a morbid and morose man, oLSeceder descent ; and 
he had inherited a tinge of the old Cameronian feeling, 
not often met with nowadays. He felt it incumbent on 
him to be a sort of living protest in the Manse against 
the temporizing and feeble condition of theological 
opinion he found there. He looked upon Mr. Cassilis 
as little else than a “ Moderate, ” and even made bold, 
upon rare occasions, to confront the Minister himself. 

“ Andrew,” said Mr. Cassilis one day, “ you are a re- 
bellious servant, and one that would intemperately dis- 
turb the peace o’ the Church.” 

“ In nowise, Minister, in nowise,” retorted Andrew, 
with firmness. “ But in maitters spiritual I will yield 
obedience to no man. There is but one King in Sion, 
sir, for a’ that a dominant and Erastian Estayblishment 
may say.” 

“ Toots, toots,” said the Minister, testily. “ Let the 
Establishment alone, Andrew. It does more good than 
harm, surely.” 

“ Maybe, maybe,” replied Andrew (with an uncom- 
fortable feeling that the Establishment had supplied him 
with the carnal advantages of a good situation) ; “ but I 
am not wan that would rub out the ancient landmarks 
o’ the faith which our fathers suffered for, and starved 
for, and bled for. The auld religion is dying out owre 
fast .as it is, but there is still a remnant o’ Jacob among 
the Gentiles, and they are not a’ like Nicodemus, that 
was ashamed o’ the truth that was in him, and bided until 
the nicht.” 

It was well, therefore, that this fearless denouncer 
did not hear the following conversation which took place 
between the Minister and his niece. The latter had been 
conducted by Leezibeth to see the rooms prepared for 
her. With these she was highly delighted. A large 
chamber, which had served as a dormitory for the boys, 
was now transformed into a sitting-room for her, and 


i4 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


the boys’ beds had been carried into a neighboring hay 
loft, which had cleared out for the purpose. In this sit- 
ting-room she found her piano, which had been sent on 
some days before, and a number of other treasures from 
her southern home. There were two small square 
windows in the room, and they looked over the garden, 
with its moss-grown wall, and beyond that over a corner 
of Airlie moor, and' beyond that again over the sloping 
and wooded country which stretched away downward to 
the western coast. A faint gray breadth of sea was 
visible there, and the island of Arran, with its peaked 
mountains grown a pale, transparent blue, lay along the 
horizon. 

“Ye might hae left that music-box in France,” said 
Leezibeth. “ It’s better fitted for there than here.” 

“ I could not live without it,” said Coquette, with 
some wonder. 

“ Then I’d advise ye no to open it to-day, which is a 
day o’ preparation for the solemn services o’ the Sabbath. 
The denner is on the table, miss.” 

The young lady went downstairs and took her place 
at the table, all the boys staring at her with open mouth 
and eyes. It was during her talk with the Minister that 
she casually made a remark about “ the last time she 
had gone to mass.” 

Consternation sat upon every face. Even the Mini- 
ster looked deeply shocked, and asked her if she had 
been brought up a Roman. 

“ A Catholic ? Yes,” said Coquette, simply, and yet 
looking strangely at the faces of the boys. They, had 
never before had a Catholic come among them unawares. 

“ I am deeply grieved and pained,” said the Minister, 
gravely. “ I knew not that my brother had been a per- 
vert from the communion of our Church — ” 

“ Papa was not a Catholic,” said Coquette. “ Mamma 
and I were. But it matters nothing. I will go to your 
church — it is the same to me.” 

“ But,” said the Minister, in amazement and horror, 
“ it is worse that you should be so indifferent than that 


A DAUGHTER OE HE TH. 


*5 


you should be a Catholic. Have you never been in 
structed as to the all-importance of your religious faith ? ” 
“ I do not know much — but I will learn, if you 
please,” she said. “ I have only tried to be kind to the 
people around me — that is all. I will learn if you will 
teach me. I will be what you like.” 

“ Her ignorance is lamentable, ” muttered the Minister 
to himself ; and the boys looked at her askance and with 
fear. Perhaps she was a secret friend and ally of the Pope 
himself. 

But the Whaup, who had been inclined to show 
an independent contempt for his new cousin, no sooner 
saw her get into trouble than he startled everybody by ex- 
claiming warmly, — 

“ She has got the best part of all religions, if she does 
her best to the people around her.” 

“ Thomas, ” said the Minister, severely, “ you are not 
competent to judge of these things. ” 

But Coquette looked at the lad, and saw that his face 
was burning, and she thanked, him with her expressive 
eyes. Another such glance would have made the Whaup 
forswear his belief in the Gunpowder Plot ; and, as it was, 
he began to cherish wild notions about Roman Catholicism. 
That was the first result of Coquette’s arrival at Airlie. 


CHAPTER III. 

A PENITENT. 

When, on the Sunday morning, Coquette, having risen, 
dressed, and come into her sitting-room, went foward to 
one of the small windows, she uttered a cry of delight. 
She had no idea that the surroundings of her new home 
were so lovely. Outside the bright sunlight of the morning 
fell on the Minister’s garden and orchard — a somewhat 
tangled mass, it is true, of flower-beds and roses and 
apple-trees, with patches of cabbage, pease, and other 


i6 


A DAUGHTER OF IIETH. 


kitchen stuff filling up every corner. A white rose-tree 
nearly covered the wall of the Manse, and hung its leaves 
round the two windows ; and when she opened one of these 
to let the fresh air rush in, there was a scent of roses 
that filled the room in a second. 

But far beyond the precincts of the Manse stretched 
a great landscape, so spacious, so varied, that her eye ran 
over it with increasing delight and wonder, and could not 
tell which part of it was the more beautiful. First, the 
sea. Just over the mountains of the distant island of 
Arran — a spectral blue mass lying along the horizon — 
there was a confusion of clouds that let the sunlight fall 
down on the plain of water in misty, slanting lines. The 
sea was dark, except where those rays smote it sharp and 
clear, glimmering in silver ; while a black steamer slowly 
crept across the lanes of blinding light, a mere speck. 
Down in the south there was a small gray cloud, the size 
of a man’s hand, resting on the water ; but she did not 
know that that was the rock of Ailsa. Then, nearer 
shore the white waves and the blue sea ran into two long 
bays, bordered by a waste of ruddy sand ; and above the 
largest* of these great bays she saw a thin line of dark 
houses and gleaming slates, stretching from the old-world 
town of Saltcoats up to its more modern suburb of 
Ardrossan, where a small fleet of coasting«vessels rocked 
in the harbor. So near were these houses to the water 
that, from where Coquette stood, they seemed a black 
fringe or breastwork to the land ; and the spire of Salt- 
coats church, rising from above the slates, was sharply 
defined against the windy plain of tumbling waves. 

Then inland. Her window looked south ; and before 
her stretched the fair and fertile valleys and hills of Ayr- 
shire — undulating squares and patches of yellow, inter- 
sected by dark green lines of copse running down to the 
sea. The red flames of the Stevenston iron-works flick- 
ered in the daylight ; a mist of blue smoke hung over 
Irvine and Troon ; and, had her eyes known where to look, 
she might have caught the pale gray glimmer of the houses 
of Ayr. As the white clouds sailed across the sky, blue 
shadows crept across this variegated plain beneath 


A DAUGHTER OF HETIf. 


1 7 


momentarily changing its many hues and colors ; and 
while some dark wood would suddenly deepen in gloom, 
lo ! beside it some hitherto unperceived cornfield would 
as suddenly burst out in a gleam of yellow, burning like 
gold in the clear light. 

So still it was on this quiet Sunday morning that she 
could hear the “ click ” of a grasshopper on the warm 
gravel outside, and the hum of a passing bee as it buried 
itself in one of the white roses, and then flew on. As 
she looked away to the south, it seemed to her she could 
hear more. Her eyes refused to recognize the beautiful 
scene before her, and saw another which was very differ- 
ent. Was not that the plashing of the sea on the sunny 
coast of France ? Was not that the sound of chanting in 
the small chapel at Le Croisic, out there at the point of 
land that runs into the sea above the estuary of the Loire ? 
Her mental vision followed the line of coast running 
inward — passing the quaint houses and the great build- 
ing-yards of St. Nazaire — and then, as she followed the 
course of the broad blue river, she came :o her own home, 
high upon the bank, overlooking the islands on the stream, 
and the lower land and green woods beyond. 

“ If I had a pair of wings,” she said, with a laugh, 
“ I would fly avay.* She had determined she would 
always speak English now, even to herself. 

She went to her piano and sat down and began to 
sing the old and simple air that she had sung when she 
left her southern home. She sang of “ Normandie, ma 
Normandie ; ” and the sensitive thrill of a rich and soft 
contralto voice lent a singular pathos to the air, although 
she seemed to sing carelessly, and, indeed, from light- 
ness of heart. N§>w it happened that the Whaup was 
passing the foot of the stair leading up to her room. 
At first he could not believe his ears that any one was 
actually singing a profane song on the Sabbath morn- 
ing ; but no sooner had he heard “ O Normandie, ma 
I Normandie ! ” than he flew up the stairs, three steps at 
a bound, to stop such wickedness. 

She did not sing loudly, but he thought he had never 
heard such singing. He paused for a moment at the 


8 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


top of the stair. He listened, and - succumbed to the 
temptress. The peculiar penetrating timbre of the deep 
contralto voice pierced him and fixed him there, so that 
he forgot all about his well-meant interference. He 
listened breathlessly, and with a certain amount of awe, 
as if it had been vouchsafed to him to hear the singing 
of angels. He remembered no more that it was sinful ; 
and when the girl ceased singing, it seemed to him 
there was a terrible void in the silence, which was al- 
most misery. 

Presently her fingers touched the keys again. What 
was this now that filled the air with a melody which had 
a strange distance and unearthliness about it ? She 
had begun to play Mozart’s sonata in A sharp, and was 
playing it carelessly enough ; but the Whaup had never 
heard anything like it before. It seemed to him to open 
with the sad stateliness of a march, and he could almost 
hear in it the tread of aerial hosts ; and then there was 
a suggestion of triumph and joy, falling back into that 
plaintive and measured cadence. It was full of dreams 
and mystery to him ; he knew no longer that he was in 
a Scotch Manse. Put when the girl inside the room 
broke into the rapidity of the first variation, and was in- 
deed provoked into giving some attention to her playing, 
and lending some sharpness to her execution, he was re- 
called to himself. He had been deluded by the devil. 
He would no longer permit this thing to go on un- 
checked. He would at once have opened the door and 
charged her to desist, but from a sneaking hope that 
she might play something more intelligible to him than 
these variations, which he regarded as impudent and 
paganish — the original melody playing hide-and-seek 
with you in a demoniac fashion, and laughing at you 
from behind a corner, when you thought you had secured 
it. He was lingering in this uncertain way when Leezi- 
beth dashed up the stairs. She saw him standing there, 
listening, and threw a glance of contempt at him. She 
banged the door open, and advanced into the room. 

“ Preserve us a’, lassie, do ye ken what ye’re doing ? 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


T 9 


Do ye no ken that this is the Sabbath, and that you’re 
in a respectable house ? ” 

The girl turned around with more wonder than alarm 
in her face. 

“ Is it not right to play music on Sunday ? ” 

“ Sunday ! Sunday ! ” exclaimed Leezibeth, who was 
nearly choking, partly from excitement and partly from 
having rushed upstairs ; “ your heathenish gibberish 
accords weel wi’ sic conduct. There is nae Sunday for 
us. We are no worshippers o’ Bel and the Draugon ; 
and dinna ye tell me that the dochter o’ the Minister’s 
brither doesna ken that it is naething less than heathen- 
ish to turn a sober and respectable house into a Babel o’ 
a theatre on a Sabbath morning — ” 

At this moment the Whaup made his appearance, 
with his eyes aflame. 

“ Plenty, plenty, Leezibeth ! ” said he, standing out 
in the middle of the floor. 

“ Ma certes,” said Leezibeth, turning on her new 
enemy, “ and this is a pretty pass ! Is there to be nae 
order in the house because ye are a’ won ower by a 
smooth face and a pretty pair o’ een ? Is the Manse to 
be tumbled tapsalteery, and made a by-word o’ because 
o’ a foreign hussy ? ” 

“ Leezibeth,” said the Whaup, “ as sure’s death, if 
ye say another word to my cousin, ye’ll gang fleein’ 
down that stair quicker than ever ye came up. Do ye 
hear ? ” 

Leezibeth threw up her hands, and went away. The 
Manse would soon be no longer fit for a respectable 
woman to live in. Singing and dancing and play-acting 
on the Sabbath morning ; after all, Andrew was right. 
It would have been a merciful# dispensation if the boat 
that brought this Jezebel to the country had foundered 
in sight of its shores. 

Then the Whaup turned to Coquette. “ Look here,” 
said he, “ I don’t mean to get into trouble more nor I 
can help. Leezibeth is an authority in the Manse, and 
ye’ll hae to make friends wi’ her. Don’t you imagine 
you can play music here or do what ye like on the Sab- 


20 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


bath, for you’ll have to be like the rest, gudeness 
gracious ! what are ye crying for ? ” 

“ I do not know,’’ she said, turning her head aside. 
“ I thank you for your kindness to me.” 

“ Oh,” said he, with a tremendous flush of red to his 
f ace — for her tears had made him valiant, “ is that all ? 
Look here, you can depend on me. When you get into 
trouble, send for me. If any man or woman in Airlie 
says a word to you, by jingo ! I’ll punch their head ! ” 
With that she turned and looked at him with laugh- 
ter like sunshine struggling through the tears in her 
eyes. 

“ Is it English — -ponche save hade ? ” 

“ Not as you pronounce it,” he said, coolly. “ But 
as I should show them, if they interfered wi’ you, it’s 
very good English, and Scotch, and Irish all put to- 
gether.” 

On Sunday morning Mr. Cassilis had his breakfast 
by himself in his study. The family had theirs in the 
ordinary breakfast-room, Leezibeth presiding. It was 
during this meal that Coquette began for the first time 
to realize the fact that there existed between her and 
the people around her some terrible and inexplicable 
difference which shut her out from them. Leezibeth 
was cold and distant to her. The boys, all except the 
Whaup, who manfully took her part, looked curiously at 
her. And with her peculiar sensitiveness to outward im- 
pressions, she began to ask herself if there was not 
some cause for this suspicion on their part. Perhaps, 
she was, unknown to herself, more wicked than others. 
Perhaps her ignorance, as in this matter of music, 
which she had always regarded as harmless— had blinded 
her to the fact that there was something more demanded 
of her than the simple and innocent and joyous life she 
believed herself to have led. These doubts and anxie- 
ties grew in proportion to their vagueness. Was she, 
after all, a dangerous person to have come among these 
religious people ? Andrew would have been rejoiced to 
know of these agitating thoughts : she was awakening 
to a consciousness of sin. 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


21 


Scarcely was breakfast over than a message was 
brought that Mr. Cassilis desired to see his niece pri- 
vately. Coquette rose up, very pale. Was it now 
that she was to have explained to her the measure of 
her own godlessness, that seemed to be a barrier be- 
tween her and the people among whom she was to live ? 

She went to the door of the study and paused there, 
with her heart beating. Already she felt like a leper 
that stood at the gates, and was afraid to talk to any 
passer-by for fear of a cruel repulse. She opened the 
door, with downcast look, and entered. Her agitation 
prevented her from speaking. And then, having raised 
her eyes, and seeing before her the tall gray-haired Min- 
ister seated in his chair, she suddenly went forward to 
him and flung herself at his feet, bursting into a wild fit of 
weeping, and burying her face in his knees. In broken 
speech, interrupted by wild sobbing and tears, she im- 
plored him to deal gently with her if she had done 
wrong. 

“ I do not know,” she said “ I do not know. I do 
not mean to do wrong. I will do what you tell me, 
but I am all alone here — and I cannot live if you are 
angry with me. I will go away, if you like ; perhaps it 
will be better if I go away, and not vex you any more.’’ 

“ But you have not vexed me, my lassie, you have 
done no wrong that I know of/’ he said, putting his 
hand on her head. “ What is all this ? What does it 
mean ? ” 

She looked up to see whether the expression of his 
face corresponded with the kindness of his voice. She 
saw there nothing but kindliness in the rugged gray 
lines, and the ordinary sternness of the deep-set eyes 
was replaced by a profound pity. 

“ I cannot tell you in English, in French I could,” 
she said. “ They speak to me as if I was different from 
them, and wicked, and I do not know rn what. I 
thought you wished to reproach me. I could not bear 
that. If I do wrong without knowing, I will do better, 
if you will tell me, but I cannot live all by myself, and 
think that I am wicked, and not know. If it is wrong 


22 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


to play music, I will not play any more music. I will 
ask Leesiebess to pardon me my illness of this morning, 
which I did not know at all.” 

The Minister smiled. 

“So you have been playing music this morning, and 
Leezibeth has stopped you. I hope she was not to blame 
in her speech, for to her it would seem very heinous to 
hear profane music on the Sabbath. Indeed, we all of 
us in Scotland consider that the Sabbath should be de- 
voted to meditation and worship, not to idleness or amuse- 
ment; and ye will doubtless come to consider it no great 
hardship to shut your piano one day out o’ the seven. 
But I sent for ye this morning wi’ quite another purpose 
than to scold ye for having fallen through ignorance into 
a fault, of which, indeed, I knew nothing.” 

He now began to unfold to her the serious perplexity 
which had been caused him by the fact of her having 
been brought up a Roman Catholic. On the one hand, 
he had a sacred duty to perform to her as being almost 
her sole surviving relation; but, on the other hand, was 
he justified in supplanting with another faith that faith 
in which her mother had desired her to remain? The 
Minister had been seriously troubled about this matter, 
and wished to have it settled before he permitted her to 
go to church with the rest of his family. He was a 
scrupulously conscientious man. They used to say of 
him in Airlie that if Satan, in arguing with him, were 
to fall into a trap, Mr. Cassilis would scorn to take ad- 
vantage of any mere slip of the tongue ; a piece of recti- 
tude not invariably met with in religious disputes. When, 
therefore, the Minister saw placed in his hands a willing 
convert, he would not accept of the conversion without 
explaining to her all the bearings of the case, and point- 
ing out to her clearly what she was doing. 

Coquette solved the difficulty in a second. 

“ If mamma were here,” she said, “ she would go at 
once to your church. It never mattered to us — the 
church. The difference, or is it differation you do say 
in English ? was nothing to us ; and papa did not mind. 
I will go to your church, and you will tell jne all what it 




A DAUGHTER OF HE TH.\ 


23 


is right. I will soon know all your religion,” she added, 
more cheerfully, “ and I will sing those dreadful slow 
tunes which papa used to sing, to make mamma laugh.” 

“ My brother might have been better employed,” said 
the Minister, with a frown ; but Coquette ran away, 
light-hearted, to dress herself to go with the others. 

The Whaup was a head taller when he issued out of 
the Manse, by the side of his new cousin, to go down to 
the little church. He was her protector. He snubbed 
the other boys. To one of them, Wattie the sneak, he 
had administered a sharp cuff on the side of the head, 
when the latter, on Coquette being summoned into the 
study, remarked confidentially, “ She’s gaun to get her 
licks ; ” * and now, when the young lady had come out 
in all the snowy brightness of her light summer costume, 
Wattie revenged himself by murmuring to his com 
panions, — 

“ Doesna she look like a play-actress ? ” 

So the small procession passed along the rough moor- 
land road until they drew near the little gray church and 
its graveyard of rude stones. Towards this point con- 
verged the scattered twos and threes now visible across 
the moor and down in the village, old men and women, 
young men and maidens, all in their best Sunday “ braws.” 
The dissonant bell was sounding harshly ; and the boys, 
before going into the gloomy little building, threw a last 
and wistful glance over the broad moor, where the bronzed 
and the yellow butterflies were fluttering in the sunlight, 
and the bees drowsily humming in the heather. 

They entered. Every one stared at Coquette, as they 
had stared at her outside. The boys could not under- 
stand the easy self-composure with which she followed 
the Whaup down between the small wooden benches, 
and took her place in the Minister’s pew. There was 
no confusion or embarrassment in her manner on meet- 
ing the eyes of the lot of strangers. 

“ She’s no feared,” said Wattie to his neighbor. 

When Coquette had taken her seat, she knelt down 


* Anglice — a whipping, 


24 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


and covered her face with her hands. The Whaup 
touched her arm quickly. 

“ Ye maunna do that,” said he, looking around anx- 
iously to see whether any of the congregation had wit- 
nessed this piece of Romish superstition. 

That look around dashed from his lips the cup of 
pleasure he had been drinking. Looking at both him- 
self and Coquette, he met the eyes of Lord Earlshope ; 
and the congregation had not seen anything of Coquette’s 
kneeling, for they had turned from her to gaze on the 
no less startling phenomenon of Lord Earlshope occupy- 
ing his family pew, in which he had not been seen for 
many years. 


CHAPTER IV. 

AN UNEXPECTED VISITOR. 

Coquette did not observe the presence of Lord 
Earlshope for some time. She was much engaged in the 
service, which was quite new to her. First of all, the 
Minister rose in his pulpit and read out a psalm ; and 
then, under him, the precentor rose, and begun, all by 
himself, to lead off the singing in a strong, harsh voice, 
which had but little music in it. The tune was “ Drum- 
clog ; ” and as Coquette listened, she mentally grouped 
its fine and impressive melody with chords, and thought 
of the wonderful strength and sweetness that Mendels- 
sohn could have imparted to that bare skeleton of an air. 
The people groaned rather than sung, there was not 
even an attempt at part singing. The men merely followed 
the air an octave lower, except when they struck into 
quite a different key, and produced such dissonances as 
are indescribable. If the use of the piano were not en- 
tirely proscribed, she promised to herself that she would 
show the Whaup next morning the true character of that 

- 


* -W 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


*s 


simple and noble air which was being so cruelly ill- 
treated. 

There followed a long extempore prayer, and another 
psalm, sung to the melancholy “ Coleshill,” and then 
there came the sermon. She tried hard to understand 
it, but she could not. It was an earnest and powerful 
appeal ; but it was so clothed in the imagery of the 
Jewish prophets, so full of the technical phrases of the 
Scotch preachers, that she could not follow it. Her 
English had been chiefly gathered from the free and 
easy conversation of her father, and even that had been 
modified by the foreign pronunciation of her mother ; 
so that such phrases as “ the fulfilment of the covenant,’’ 
“ girding up the loins,” “ awakening unto grace,” and so 
forth, conveyed no meaning to her whatever. In spite 
of her best endeavors, she found herself dreaming of the 
Loire, of St. Nazaire, of Guerande, of the salt plains 
that lie between that town and Le Croisic, and of the 
Breton peasants in their white bragousbras and wide 
hats, making their pilgrimages to the church of Notre 
Dame de Murier. 

The sight of Lord Earlshope had made the Whaup 
both savage and wicked. He proposed to Wattie to 
play “ Neevie, neevie, nick-nack ” ; an offer which Wat- 
tie looked upon as the direct instigation of the devil, 
and refused accordingly. 

When, at last, Coquette caught the eyes of Lord 
Earlshope fixed upon her, she was surprised to see him 
so intently regarding her. There was something wist- 
ful, too, in his look ; his face bearing an expression of 
seriousness she did not expect to find in it. During the 
brief period in which he talked to her he had left upon 
her the impression of his being merely a light-hearted 
young man, who had winning ways, and a good deal of 
self-confidence. But the fact is, she had paid no very 
great attention to him, and even now she was not dis- 
posed to look upon his fixed gaze as anything beyond a 
mere accident. She turned her eyes aside; tried once 
more to follow the sermon ; and again subsided into 
dreaming of Bourg de Batz and the square pools of the 


26 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


salt plains, with the Ancient walls of Guerande filling up 
the horizon of her imagination. 

When the service was over, and they had got out- 
side, the Whaup bundled them off on the road towards 
the Manse with but little ceremony, taking care that 
Coquette should be in front. 

“ What has changed you ? ” she said, in some sur- 
prise. “ I did think you were good friends with me on 
coming to the church.” 

“ Never mind,” he said abruptly ; and then he added, 
sharply, “ Did you see Lord Earlshope there ? ” 

“ Yes, I did see him.” 

“What business had he there ? ” 

“ People go not to the church for business,” she said, 
with a laugh. 

“ He has not been in that pew for years,” said the 
Whaup, gloomily. 

“ Perhaps he is becoming a good man,” she said, 
lightly, making a careless effort to catch a butterfly that 
fluttered before her face. 

u He has plenty to alter, then,” said the Whaup, 
bitterly. 

* “ Quel dr ole de grand enfant! Wattle,” she said 

turning to the Whaup’s brother, “ will you run with me 
to the house ? •” 

She held out her hand. 

“ No, I’ll no,” said Wattie. “Ye are a Roman, and 
can get absolution for a’ the ill ye dae.” 

“ I will, an’ ye like,” said the youngest of the brothers, 
Dougal, timidly. 

“ Come along, then ! ” 

She took his hand, and, before Leezibeth or Andrew 
could interfere, they were fleeing along the rough road 
towards the Manse, far in front of the others. Dougal, 
young as he was, was a swift runner ; but the foreign 
lassie beat him, and was evidently helping him. All at 
once Dougal was seen to stumble and roll forward. Co- 
quette made a desperate effort to save him, but in vain ; 
and while he fell prone upon the ground, she was brought 
nearly on her knees. The little fellow got up, looking 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


27 

sadly at one of his hands, which was badly scratched 
with the gravel. He looked at her, too, dumbly ; clench- 
ing his lips to keep himself from crying, although the 
tears would gather in his eyes. In an instant she had 
overwhelmed him with pitying caresses and soft French 
phrases of endearment, while she carefully smoothed his 
torn hand with her handkerchief. 

“ You will come with me to my room, and I will heal 
it for you.” 

She carried him off before the others had arrived, 
and washed his hand, and put cold cream on it, and gave 
him a whole box of French chocolate, a dainty which 
he had never seen before, but which he speedily appre- 
ciated. Then she said, — 

“ Come along, now, and I will sing you something. 
Alas ! no, I must not open my piano any more.” 

It was the first time Dougal had ever heard anybody 
say “alas!” a word which Coquette had picked up 
from her English books. He began to distrust all this 
kindness and all these fascinating ways. What Coquette 
knew of English was more English than Scotch in pro- 
nunciation. Now everybody in Airlie was aware of the 
curious fact that all actors and public singers, and such 
people generally as live by their wits, were English ; and 
an English accent was therefore in itself auspicious. If 
this young lady in the white muslin dress, with the blue 
ribbons in her black hair, was not actually French, she 
was English, which was only a shade less deplorable. 
Dougal accepted the brown and sweet, little balls of 
chocolate with some compunction, and hoped he was do- 
ing no mortal sin in eating them. 

After the “interval,” as it was technically called, 
they had to go to church again, and here Coquette’s pa- 
tience nearly gave way. Nor was the situation rendered 
less grievous by the Whaup informing her severely that 
in Airlie there was no such thing as idle walking about 
on the Sabbath, that the whole of the afternoon she 
would not even be permitted to go into the garden, but 
would have to sit indoors and read a “ good book.” The 
Whaup was not ill-pleased' to have to convey this infor- 

. 


28 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


mation ; he fancied Lord Earlshope might be prowling 
about. 

There was a “ tea dinner ” at four o’clock, consisting 
exclusively of cold meats, with tea added. Thereafter 
the whole family sat down in solemn silence to their 
books, the list being the Bible, the Shorter and Longer 
Catechisms, Hutcheson’s Exposition, Dr. Spurstow on 
the Promise, the Christian’s Charter, Bishop Downham 
on the Covenant of Grace (these last printed for Ralph 
Smith , at the Bible in Cornhill ”), and Josephus. By 
this copy of Josephus there hangs a tale. 

Dougal, remembering that business of the chocolate, 
came over to Coquette and whispered, — 

“ If ye are friends wi’ the Whaup, he’ll show ye the 
third volume of Josephus.” 

Indeed the boys manifested the most lively curiosity 
when the Whaup appeared bearing the third volume of 
Josephus in his hand. They seemed to forget the sun- 
light outside, and the fresh air of the moor, in watching 
this treasure. The Whaup sat down at the table, the 
Minister was seated at the upper end of the room in his 
arm-chair, and the third volume of Josephus was opened. 

Coquette perceived that some mystery was abroad. 
The boys drew more and more near to the Whaup, and 
were apparently more anxious to see the third volume 
of Josephus than anything else. She observed also that 
the Whaup, keeping the board of the volume up, never 
seemed to turn over any leaves. 

She, too, overcome by feminine curiosity, drew near. 
The Whaup looked at her, suspiciously at first, then he 
seemed to relent. 

“ Have ye read Josephus ? ” he said aloud to her. 

“No/ said Coquette. 

“ It is a most valuable work.” said the Minister from 
the upper end of the room (the Whaup started), “ as 
giving corroboration to the sacred writings from one who 
was not an advocate of the truth.” 

Coquette moved her chair in to the table. The 
Whaup carefully placed the volume before her. Sht 
looked at it, and beheld — two white mice ! 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


29 


The mystery was solved. The Whaup had daringly 
cut out the body of the volume, leaving the boards and 
a margin of the leaves all round. In the hole thus formed 
reposed two white mice, in the feeding and petting of 
which he spent the whole Sunday afternoon, when he 
was supposed to be reading diligently. No wonder the 
boys were anxious to see the third volume of Josephus; 
and when any one of them had done a particular favor 
to the Whaup, he was allowed to have half an hour of 
the valuable book. There were also two or three leaves 
left in front ; so that, when any dangerous person passed, 
these leaves could be shut down over the cage of the 
mice. 

They were thus engaged when Leezibeth suddenly „ 
opened the door, and said, 

“ Lord Earlshope would speak wi’ ye, sir.” 

Astonishment was depicted on every countenance. 
From time immemorial no visitor had dared to invade 
the sanctity of Airlie Manse on a Sabbath afternoon. 

“ Show him into my study, Leezibeth,” said the Min- 
ister. 

“ By no means,” said his Lordship, entering ; “ I 
would not disturb you, Mr. Cassilis, on any account. I 
have merely called in to say a passing word to you, al- 
though I know it is not good manners in Airlie to pay 
visits on Sunday.” 

“ Your Lordship is doubtless aware,” returned Mr. 
Cassilis, gravely, “ that it is not the consideration of good 
manners gars us keep the Sabbath inviolate from customs 
which on other days are lawful and praiseworthy.” 

“ I know, I know,” said the young gentleman, good- 
naturedly, and taking so little notice of the hint as to ap- 
propriate a chair ; “ but you must blame my English ed- 
ucation if I fall short. Indeed, it struck me this morning 
that I have of late been rather remiss in attending to my 
duties, and I made a sort of resolve to do better. You 
would see I was at church to-day.” 

“ You could not have been in a more fitting place,” 
said the Minister. 

Mr. Cassilis, despite the fact that he was talking to 


30 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


the patron of the living, Lord Earlshope’s father had 
presented him to the parish of Airlie, was not disposed 
to be too gracious to this young man, whose manner of 
conduct, although in no way openly sinful, had been a 
scandal to the neighborhood. 

“ He’ll have a heavy reconin’ to settle i' the next 
work,” Andrew used to say, “be he lord or no lord. 
What think ye, sirs, o’ a young man that reads licht books 
and smokes cigaurs fraethe rising o’ the sun even till the 
ganging doon o’ the same ; and roams about on the Lord’s 
day breaking in a wheen pointers ? ” 

The boys looked on this visit of Lord Earlshope as a 
blessed relief from the monotony of the Sunday after- 
noon ; and while they kept their eyes steadily directed 
on their books, listened eagerly to what he had to say. 
This amusement did not last long. His Lordship, 
scarcely taking any notice of Coquette in his talk, though 
he sometimes looked at her by chance, spoke chiefly of 
some repairs in the church which he was willing to aid 
with a subscription ; and, having thus pleased the Minis- 
ter, mentioned that Earlshope itself had been undergoing 
repairs and redecoration. 

“ And I have no neighbors but yourselves, Mr Cas- 
silis, to see our new grandeur. Will you not pay Earls- 
hope a visit ? What do you say to coming over, the 
whole of you, to-morrow forenoon, and seeing what I have 
done ? I dare say Mrs. Graham will be able to get some 
refreshment for you ; and I should like your niece, 
whom I had the pleasure of seeing on her way here, to 
give me her opinion about an organ sent me from abroad. 
What do you say ? I am sure the boys will enjoy a holi- 
day in the grounds, and be able to find amusement for 
themselves.” 

If the Whaup dared to have spoken, he would have 
refused in indignant terms. The other boys were de- 
lighted with the prospect, although they were still sup- 
posed to be reading. Coquette merely looked at Mr. 
Cassilis, apparently without much interest, awaiting his 
answer. 

Mr. Cassilis replied, in grave and dignified terms of 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Til. 


3 1 


courtesy, that he would be proud to avail himself of his 
Lordship’s invitation ; and added that he hoped this re- 
establishment of the relations which had existed between 
Earlshope and the Manse in the time of his Lordship’s 
father meant that he, the present Lord Earlshope, in- 
tended to come oftener to church than had been his wont 
of late. The hint was conveyed in very plain language. 
The young gentleman, however, took it in good part, and 
speedily bade them good-evening. He bowed to Co- 
quette as he passed her, and she returned his obeisance, 
with her eyes fixed on the ground. 


CHAPTER V. 


coquette’s music. 


What Jvas this great rushing and whistling noise 
that filled the girl's ears as the light of the morning, 
entering by a small window, which had no sort of blind 
or shutter, fell on her face and opened her confused 
eyes to its glare ? She had been dreaming of Earleshope. 
Dreams are but rechauffees of past experiences ; and 
this ghostly Earlshope that she visited in her sleep was 
a French Earlshope. The broad, blue Loire ran down a 
valley in front of it. There were hills for a background 
which had long terraces of vines on them. P"rom the win- 


dows she could see the steamers, mere dots with a long 
serpent train of smoke behind them, creep into the 
haven of St. Nazaire ; and far over the sea lay the calm 
summer stillness of a southern sky. 

She awoke to find herself in Scotland. The Manse 
shook in the wind. There was a roaring of rain on the 
slates and the window panes, and a hissing outside of 
the deluge that was pouring a red stream down the 
moorland road. P'ierce gusts from the southwest flew 
about the house, and howled in the chimney overhead ; 


3 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


and great gray masses of cloud, riven by the hurricane, 
came up from over the sea and swept across the moor. 
The room was cold and damp. When she had got up 
and partly dressed, she went to the window. Along the 
horizon there was a thin black line, dull as lead, which 
was all that was visible of the sea. The mountains of 
Arran had entirely disappeared, and in their place was a- 
wall of gray vapor. Flying before the blast came huge 
volumes of smoke-like cloud, and every now and again 
their lower edges would be torn down by the wind and 
thrown upon the moor in heavy, slanting torrents of rain ; 
while there was a sound of rushing streams everywhere, 
and the trees and shrubs of the garden stood bent and 
dark in the gleaming wet. 

“No Earlshope for ye to-day,” said the Whaup, 
with ill-disguised glee, when she went downstairs to 
breakfast. 

“I am not sorry. What a dreadful chill country!” 
said Coquette, who was trembling with cold. 

“ Would you like a fire ? ” said the Whaup, eagerly. 

“A fire, indeed ! ” cried Leezibeth, as she entered 
with the tray. “A fire in the middle o’ summer ! We 
have na been brought up to sic luxuries in this pairt o’ 
the country.” 

“ I am not very cold,” said Coquette, sitting down in 
a corner, and trying to keep herself from shivering. 

The Whaup walked out of the room. He was too 
angry to speak. He looked once at Leezibeth on going 
out, and there was a blaze of anger in his eyes. 

The Minister came in to breakfast, and they all sat 
down ; all but the Whaup. 

“ Where is Thomas ?” said Mr. Cassi-lis. 

The reply was a shrill scream from Leezibeth, who 
was apparently at the door. At this moment a wild 
crackling and sputtering of fire was heard overhead, and 
as. everybody rushed to the passage, dense volumes of 
smoke came rolling down the stairs, blown by the cur- 
rents above. Leezibeth had flown upstairs on first per- 
ceiving this smell of burning. There, in Coquette’s 
parlor, she caught sight of the Whaup working like a 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


33 


demon within clouds of heavy and pungent smoke which 
had filled the room, blown outward by the fierce currents 
coming down the chimney. With another cry of alarm 
Leezibeth darted into the nearest bedroom, and brought 
out a ewer of water, which s’he discharged at the blazing 
mass of newspapers and lumps of wood that the Whaup 
had crammed into the small grate. 

“ Would ye set fire to the house ? Would ye set fire 
to the house?” she cried, and, indeed, it looked as if 
the house were on fire. 

“ Yes, I would,” shouted the demon in the smoke, 
“ rather than kill any body wi’ cold.” 

** Oh, it’s that lassie, it’s that lassie ! ” cried Leezibeth, 
a that’ll be the ruin o’ us a.” 

When assistance came, and the fire was finally sub- 
dued, both the Whaup and Leezibeth were spectacles to 
have awakened the ridicule of gods and men. The ef- 
fect of the deluge of water had been to send up a cloud 
of dust and ashes with the smoke ; and their faces were 
tattooed so that even Mr. Cassilis, for the first time 
these many years, burst into a fit of laughter. Even 
Wattie laughed, seeing which the Whaup charged at 
him caught him by the waist, and carried him bodily 
downstairs and out through the rain to the yard, where 
he made him work the iron handle of the pump. When 
the Whaup made his appearance at the breakfast-table 
he was clean, but both himsdf and his brother were 
rather damp. 

Mr. Cassilis severely reprimanded his eldest son ; 
but he ordered Leezibeth to light a fire in Miss Cassilis’s 
room nevertheless. The wind had somewhat abated, 
and the clouds had gathered for a steady downpour. 
Leezibeth went to her appointed task with bitterness of 
heart, but she comforted herself with texts. As she 
stuffed the unconsumed remnants of the Whaup’ s bon- 
fire into the grate, she uttered a denunciation of the 
luxury and idleness which were appearing for the first 
time in that godly house. 

“ But we,” she muttered to herself, “ who are the poor 
o’ this world, rich in faith, and heirs o’ the kingdom, 


34 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


maun bide and suffer. We maun e’en be the servants 
o’ such as this woman that has come among us ; such as 
lie upon beds of ivory, and stretch themselves upon their 
couches, and eat the lambs out of the flock, and the calves 
out of the midst of the stall ; that chant to the sound of 
the viol, and invent to themselves instruments of music, 
like David ; that drink wine in bowls, and anoint them- 
selves wi’ the chief ointments ; but they are not grieved 
for the affliction of Joseph.” 

Yet even these consolations did not quite allay the 
irritation of her mind ; for a big tom-cat that belonged to 
the house having approached her elbow too confidently, 
suddenly received a skelp” that sent him flying across' 
the room and down the stairs as if the spirits of a legion 
of dogs were pursuing him. 

Airlie Manse was destined that day to be given up 
to the sound of the viol and other heathenish rejoicings. 
All thought of getting to Earlshope was abandoned ; 
and shortly after breakfast Coquette invited Mr. Cassilis 
and the boys to her sitting-room, promising to play 
something for them. Custom made the Minister hesi- 
tate for a moment.. Was not dance music very near 
dancing, which he regarded as a profane and dangerous 
amusement ? 

“I wish to play for you, what you call it? the tune 
of the church yesterday, as it should be sung. Will you 
hear it from me ? ” 

No objection could be taken to sacred music. The 
Minister led the way to the room, and the boys sat down 
silently, looking around with curiosity and awe upon the 
strange bits of foreign adornment and luxury which 
Coquette had already placed about the room. The fire 
was burning brightly, the rain pattering on the panes 
outside. Coquette sat down to the piano. 

The Minister did not know at first that he was listen- 
ing to the old and familiar air of “ Drumclog.” It seemed 
to him the cry of a great supplication, sad, yearning, 
and distant, as if it came from a far moor half hidden in 
mist. It sounded like the softened and various voices of 
a great multitude made harmonious and pathetic by dis- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


35 


tance. But when she smote firmer chords, and with a 
resonant and powerful bass let the clear treble ring out 
triumphantly, he recognized “ Drumclog.” It was a song 
of victory now, the war-cry of a host moved by intense 
religious enthusiasm ; there was a joyous thanksgiving 
in it, and the clear voices of women and children. It 
seemed to him to represent a tumult of rejoicing, set in 
measured and modulated music, that rose like one sweet, 
strong voice. Then again the chords were softened, 
and the air changed to a wail. He could almost see the 
far moor, and the dead lying on it, and women wringing 
their hands, and yet thanking God for the victory. 

“ It is wonderfu’, wonderful’,” he said, when Coquette 
had ceased playing, “ the power o’ a dumb instrument to 
speak such strange things.’’ 

He was surprised to find that this carnal invention 
of music had awoke such profound emotion within him. 
He waited to see if the girl herself were affected as she 
had affected him ; but Coquette turned around and 
said, lightly, “It is a good air, but your church people 
they do not sing it. They groan, groan, groan all the 
same air : no counter-singing, no music.” 

“ But you would make any tune, however bad, sound 
well,” said the Whaup, warmly. “To every one note 
you give four or five other notes, all in harmony. No 
wonder it sounds well. It is no test. Play us some of 
your foreign music, that we may compare it.” 

The boys looked at the Whaup with astonishment : 
he was becoming an orator. 

So she played them the Cujus animcnn, and for the first 
time in its history the Manse of Airlie was flooded with 
that sonorous and brilliant music that has charmed the 
hearts of multitudes. She played them the mystic melo- 
dies of the Hochzitemarsch , and they thought that these 
also were the expiession of a sublime devotional exalta- 
tion. Indeed, the boys regarded those pieces with some- 
thing of awe and fear. There was- an unholy smack of 
organ-playing and Romanism about Coquette’s perform- 
ances. Had she not transfomed the decent and sober 
tune of “ Drumclog ” into a mass or chant, 01: some such 


36 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


vague portion of Catholic ordinances ? Wattie was in 
possession of an ingenious little book on “ Various Forms 
of Idolatry ; ” and, the first plate representing the burn- 
ing at the stake of a “ popish witch,’’ he had pointed out 
to his brothers that the black and profuse hair of the 
young woman in the flames very much resembled the 
hair of Coquette. It was but a suggestion, yet Rabbie, 
another of the brothers, expressed the belief that there 
were witches in these days also, that they were emissaries 
of the “ deevil,” and that it behooved every one who wished 
to save his soul to guard against such fiends in disguise, 
and, above all, never to repeat any charm after them to- 
wards twelve of the night. 

Coquette rose from the piano. 

“ Who is going to play for me now ? ” she said, look- 
ing at the boys. 

A loud guffaw ran down the line of them ; the notion 
of a boy being able to play on the piano was irresistibly 
ludicrous. 

“ Have you not learned at the school ? ” she asked. 
“You must know some pieces to play.” 

“ Frenchmen may learn to play the piano,” said the 
Whaup, with an air of calm superiority,* “ but men in 
this country have something else to do.” 

u What is it you do?” said Coquette, simply, having 
quite .misunderstood the remark. “You play not the 
piano : is it the violin — the — the flute one learns here 
at the school ? ” 

“ V/e dinna learn music at the schule, ye gowk, ’’said 
one of the boys. 

“ Nor manners either,” said the Whaup, firing up at 
the last word. 

At this juncture the Minister gravely thanked Co- 
quettet for the pleasure her music had given him, and 
left the room. No sooner had he gone than the Whaup 
ordered his brothers to follow They seemed inclined to 
show a spirit of insubordination. 

“ Out every one o’ ye ! ” he cried, “ or I’ll leather ye 
in a lump ! ” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


37 


This autocratic proceeding left him master of the field. 
So he turned to Coquette, and said, — 

“Ye said ye wanted to hear some music. There 
is but one musician in Airlie forbye the precentor. I 
mean Neil the Pensioner, He’s a famous player on the 
fiddle — an out-and-out player, ye may take my word fort. 
Will I go and bring him to ye ? ’’ 

“ Perhaps he will not come.” 

“ Oh, I’ll bring him,” said the Whaup, confidently. 

“ But it rains much,” said Coquette, looking out on 
the disconsolate gray landscape, the dripping trees, and 
the lowering sky. 

The Whaup laughed aloud, as his long legs carried 
him down the soft red road over the moor towards the 
village. He was no timid French creature, brought up 
under fair skies, that he should dread a temporary wetting. 
When he arrived at Neil Lamont’s cottage the rain was 
running down his face, and he only blew it from his 
mouth and flung it from his fingers as he burst into the 
astonished Pensioner’s presence, and bade him bundle 
up his fiddle and come along. 

The Pensioner, as he was called, was a tall, spare old 
Highlandman,. somewhat bent now, with scanty gray hair, 
and dazed, mild gray eyes, who had been at Waterloo. 
He represented at once the martial and musical aspeets of 
Airlie. His narra ive of the event of Waterloo had grad- 
ually, during many years, become more and more full of 
personal detail, until the old man at last firmly believed 
that he himself, in his own proper person, had witnessed 
the whole of the battle, and been one of the chief heroes 
of the hour. Napoleon, whom he had never seen, he de- 
scribed minutely, and the inhabitants of Airlie had learned 
to picture the rage and mortification visible on the face 
of the great commander when he saw Neil rushing on to 
victory over the dead bodies of three French grenadiers, 
whom the hardy Highlander had overcome. Waterloo 
had grown to be a great panorama for him ; and he would 
unroll it at any moment, and name you every object and 
person in the picture. 

He was the village musician, too, and was in much 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


3S 

request at balls, marriages, and other celebrations. The 
old man was singularly sensitive to music, and the wicked 
boys of the village used to practise on his weakness. When 
they saw the Pensioner out walking, they would begin 
to whistle some military march, “ The Campbells are 
coming,’’ “ The girl I left behind me,” or “ What’s a’ the 
steer, kimmer,’’and you could see the Pensioner draw 
himself up, and go on with a military swagger, with his 
head erect. As for his own musical efforts, was there 
anybody-- in all the breadth of Ayreshire who could play 
“ TheEast Neuk o’ Fife ” with such tremendous “spunk ? * 

When the Pensioner was told that he had to play to 
a young French lady, he was a proud man. 

“Ye will na sink,” he observed to the Whaup in his 
curious jumble of Lowland and Highland pronunciation, 
“sat I will hurt sa leddy’s feelins. No. Our prave re- 
giments sent sa French fleein’ at Waterloo; but I wik 
speak jist nae word apoot it. I sweer till’t — she will not 
even pe sinkin I wass at Waterloo.” 

Coquette received him graciously ; the old High- 
lander was respectful, and yet dignified, in return. He 
gently declined to show her his medal, fearful that the 
word “ Waterloo ” would pain her. He would not utter 
a syllable about his soldiering ; was it good manners to 
insult a beaten foe ? 

But he would play for her. He took his fiddle from 
its case, and sat down, and played her all manner of reels 
and strathspeys, but no military music. 

“Wha will ken,”. he whispered significantly to the 
Whaup, “ put sat she will have heard o’ our victorious 
tunes ? Na, na. Neil Lamont kens how to pehave 
hi ms-el’ to a leddy.” 

And, in return, Coquette sat down to the piano. 
There was one Scotch air, “ Wha’ll be King but Charlie ” 
which her father was particularly fond of. When she 
struck into that bold and stirring piece of music, with all 
the agencies of harmonious chords, the old Highlander 
sat at first apparently stupefied. He had never known 
the majesty and the power that could be lent to the tune 
which boys played on penny whistles. But as he became 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


39 


familiar with the rich and splendid sounds, he became 
more and more excited. He -beat time with his foot ; 
he slapped his thigh with his hand ; he kept his head 
erect, and looked defiance. Suddenly he seemed to for- 
get the presence of the Wbaup, who was seated in a 
corner, he started to his feet, and began pacing up and 
down the room, waving the bow of his violin as if it 
were a sword. And all at once Coquette heard behind 
her the shrill and quavering notes of an old man’s 
voice, — 


“ Come ower sa heather ! come a’ tagether I 
Come Ronald, an’ Tonald, an’ a’ tagether ! ” 

and when she turned around, the o-ld Highlandman, as 
one possessed, was marching up and down the chamber 
with his head high in the air, and tears running down 
his withered gray cheeks, 

“ Thug thu braigh-ghill air na chualadh mi fiamk 
he cried, as he sank shamefacedly into a chair. “ 1 have 
never heard sa like o’ sat not since sa day I will pe 
porn ! ” 


CHAPTER VI. 

EARLSHOPE. 

How sweet and bright and grc^n looked the grounds 
of Earlshope on the next day, wnen Mr. Cassilis and 
Coquette drew near ! The warm sun had come out 
again, and the air was fragrant with the scent of the wet 
trees. Masses of white cloud still came up from the 
south, sweeping over the dark, clear blue of the sky ; and 
the peaks of Arran, set far amid the sea, were pale and 
faint in a haze of yellow light. 

Coquette was merry-hearted. The sunshine seemed 
to please her as it pleased the butterflies and the bees 


/ 


40 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


that were again abroad. As she went down the moor- 
land road she la\ighed and chatted with tire Minister, 
and was constantly, out of pure lightness of heart, break- 
ing into merry exclamations in her native tongue ; on 
which she would suddenly recall herself with a pout of 
impatience and resume her odd and quaint English talk. 

The Whaup had been ill-tempered on setting out ; 
but the sunlight and the bright life around him thawed 
his sulkiness, and he became merely mischievous. His 
brothers perceived his mood, and kept out of his way. 
He was in the humor for rather rough practical jokes ; 
and no one of them wished to be tripped up and sent 
into the red-colored “ burn ” that still ran down between 
'the moor and the road to the little stream in the hollow. 

When they had pasbed the keeper’s lodge, and gone 
under a winding avenue of trees, they came in sight of 
the bigstone building and the bright green lawn in front 
of it. They also saw their host seated beside a stone 
lion, smoking a cigar, and watching the operations of a 
lad who, mounted on the pedestal of a statue of Venus, 
was busily engaged in giving that modest but scantily 
clad young woman a coating of white paint. 

“ Did you ever see anything so curious ? ” he said, 
when he had bade them welcome. “ Look at the rude 
indifference with which he comes over her nose, and 
gives her a slap on the cheek, and tickles her neck with 
his brush ! I have been wondering what she would do 
if she were alive — whether she would scream and run 
away, or rise up in indignant silence, or give him a sound 
box on the ears.” 

“ If she were to come alive,” said Coquette, “ he 
would be made blind with fear, and she would fly up into 
the skies.” 

“ Et procul in tenuem ex oculis evanuit auram ,” said 
the Minister, graciously, with a smile. He had not aired 
so much Latin for years. 

They had a walk round the grounds, skirting the not 
very extensive park, before they turned into the garden. 
Here everything was heavy with perfume in the sweet, 
warm air. They went into the hot-house and vineries ; 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


41 


and Lord Earlshope found a bunch of muscatel grapes 
ripe enough to be cut for Coquette. No sooner had she 
placed one between her lips than she cried out, — 

“ Oh, how like to the wine ! I have not tasted — ” 

She looked at the Minister, and hastily stopped her 
speech. 

“ You have not tasted muscatel grapes in this coun- 
try,” said Lord Earlshope, coming to her relief ; and he 
looked at her with a peculiar smile, as much as to say, 
<{ I know you meant wine.” 

The boys preferring to remain in the garden (the 
Whaup walked off by himself into the park, under pre- 
tence of seeking a peculiar species of Potentilla), Lord 
Earlshope led his two principal guests back to the house, 
and proceeded to show them its curiosities in the way 
of pictures, old armor, old furniture, and the like. Co- 
quette got so familiarized to his voice and look that she 
forgot he was but a distant acquaintance. She did not 
know that she stared at him while he was talking, or that 
she spoke to him with a pleasant carelessness which was 
oddly out of keeping with the Minister’s grave and for- 
mal courtesy. She was not even aware that she was 
taking note of his appearance ; and that, after they had 
left, she would be able to recall every lineament in his 
face and every tone of his voice. 

Lord Earlshope was a fair-haired, gentlemanly look- 
ing young man, of some twenty-six or twenty-eight years, 
of age. He was rather over the middle height, slimly 
built, and inclined to lounge carelessly. The expression 
of his eyes, which were large, gray, and clear, varied 
singularly — at one time being full of a critical and some- 
what cold scrutiny, and at other times pensive and dis- 
tant. He said he had no politics and no prejudices — un- 
less a very definite belief in “ blood ” could be considered 
a prejudice. 

“ It is no superstition with me,” he said to the Min- 
ister, as the latter was examining a s-trange old family 
tree hung up in the library. “I merely think it impru- 
dent for a man of good family to marry- out of his own 
Hass. I have seen the experiment made by some of my' 


42 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


own acquaintances ; and, as a rule, the result has been 
disastrous. The bad breeding comesout sooner or later. 

Look at the family. The late Duke married in 

Paris a woman nobody had heard of. She was appar- 
ently a respectable sort of person — but you see that every 
one of the sons has gone to the dogs, and there isn’t a 
tree belonging to the family. A man who inherits an 
historical name owes something to his forefathers, and 
has no right to risk the reputation of his family by hu- 
moring his own whims. I do not think. 1 shall ever 
marry ; for I am too poor to marry a woman of my own 
station, and too proud to marry a woman who may turn 
out to have inherited bad qualities from her ancestors.” 

Coquette came back at this moment from the book- 
shelves, with a large thin quarto in her hands. 

" Look what I have found,” she said. “ A volume of 
curious old chants.” 

“ It is treasure-trove,” said Lord Earlshope. “ I had 
no idea there was such a book in the place. ShaU we 
go and try some of them ? You know you promised to 
give me your opinion of the organ I have fitted up.” 

“ I did not promise it, but I will do it,” said Coquette. 

He led the way downstairs to the drawing-room which 
they had not yet visited. The tall chamber-organ, a 
handsome and richly decorated instrument, stood in a 
recess in the middle of the long apartment, and therefore 
did not seem so cumbrous an appanage to a room as it 
might otherwise have done. 

“ The defect of the organ,” said Lord Earlshope, as 
he placed the music for her, “is* that the operation of 
blowing the bellows is performed in sight of the public. 
You see, I must fix in this handle, and work it while you 
are playing.” 

“ You must get a screen,” she said, “ and put a ser- 
vant there.” 

“• While you are playing,” he said, “ I could not let 
anybody else assist you even in so rude a fashion.” 

Coquette laughed and sat down. Presently the sol- 
emn tones of the organ were pealing out a rich and beau- 
tiful chant, full of the quaint and impressive harmonies 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


43 


which the monks of old had pondered over and elaborated. 
If Mr. Cassilis was troubled by a suspicion that this 
noble music was of distinctly Roman Catholic or idola- 
trous origin, that doubt became a certainty when, at the 
end of the chant, there came a long and wailing “Amen ! ” 
rolled out by the organ’s deep voice. 

“You play excellently , you must be familiar with 
organ-playing,” said Lord Earlshope. “ It is not every 
one who knows the piano who can perform on an organ,” 

“ At honje the old cute used to let me play in the 
church,” she said, with her eyes grown suddenly distant 
and sad. She had remembered that her home no longef 
lay away down there in the south, where life seemed so 
pleasant. 

“ Come,” said Lord Earlshope, “ I hear my hench- 
man Sandy about to ring the bell for luncheon. Shall 
we go into the room at once, or wait tor the boys ? ” 

“They will have their luncheon off your fruit-trees, 
I am afraid,” said Mr, Cassilis. 

Nevertheless the boys were sent for, and arrived, 
looking rather afraid. The Whaup was not with them ; 
no one knew whither he had gone. 

Lord Earlshope’s household was far from being an 
extensive one ; and Mr. Cassilis’s boys found themselves 
waited on by two maid-servants who were well known to 
them as having been made the subject of many tricks ; 
while Sandy, his lordship’s valet, butler, courier, and 
general factotum, a tall and red-headed Scotchman, 
who, by reason of his foreign travels, had acquired a pro- 
found contempt for everything in his own country, 
approached Miss Cassilis with a lofty air, and, standing 
behind her at a great distance from the table, extended 
a bottle of Chablis so as to reach her glass. 

“Miss Cassilis,” said Lord Earlshope, “what wine 
will remind yc i most of The Loire ?” 

It had been her own thought, and she looked up with 
a quick and grateful smile. 

“ My father left me a fair assortment of Bordeaux 
wines ” 


44 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


“ But no vin ordinaire ,” she said with another bright 
look. 

“ I must go myself to get you that,” he said, laugh- 
ing ; “ Sandy does not know how to manufacture it.” 

Before she could protest he had left the room, and in 
a few minutes he had returned with a bottle in his hand, 
and with the air of a conjurer on his face. He himself 
filled her glass, and Coquette drank a little of it. 

“Ah ! ” she said, clasping her hands, “ I think I can 
hear old Nanette talking outside, and the river running 
underneath us; it is like being at home — as if I were at 
home again ! ” 

She fondled the glass as if it were a magical talisman 
that had transported her over the sea, and would have to 
bring her back. 

“ I must taste some of that wizard wine,” said the 
Minister, with a humorous smile, and the boys stared 
with wonder to hear their father talk about drinking 
wine. 

“Pray don’t, Mr. Cassilis,” said their host, with a 
laugh. “It is merely some new and rough claret to 
which I added a little water; the nearest approximation 
to vin otdinaire I could think of. Since your niece is so 
pleased with the Earlshope vintage, I think I must ask 
you to let me send her a supply to the Manse. It is 
quite impossible you can get it elsewhere, as I keep the 
recipe in my own hands.” 

“And this is French bread ! ” said Coquette, startled 
out of her good manners by perceiving before her along, 
narrow, brown loaf. 

“ Have I been so fortunate as to create another sur- 
prise ? ” said Lord Earlshope. “ I telegraphed for that 
bread to Glasgow, if I must tell you all my housekeeping 
secrets.” 

Tt soon became clear that the indolent young man, 
having nothing better to do, had laid his plans to get a 
thoroughly French repast prepared for Coquette. Every 
little dish that was offered her — the red mullet, the bit 
of fowl, the dry boiled beef 'and thick sauce, the plate of 
salad — was another wonder and another reminiscence of 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


45 


the south. Why, it was only a few days since she had 
arrived in Scotland, and yet it seemed ages since she had 
sat down to such another pretty French breakfast as this 
practically was. She sipped her vi?i ordinaire , and toyed 
with the various dishes that were offered her — accepting 
all, and taking a little bit of each for the very pleasure of 
“ thinking back ” with such evident delight that even Mr. 
Cassilis smiled benignantly. The boys at the Manse, 
like other boys in Scotland, had been taught that it was 
rather ignominious to experience or exhibit any enjoy- 
ment in the vulgar delights of eating and drinking ; but 
surely in the pleased surprise with which Coquette re- 
garded the French table around her there was little of 
the sensuous satisfaction of the gourmand. 

She was fairly charmed with this visit to Earlshope. 
As they went back to the Manse, she was in the most 
cheerful of moods, and quite fascinated the grave Minis- 
ter with her quaint, broken talk. She never ceased to 
speak of the place, of its grounds and gardens and books, 
and what not, even to the brightness of the atmosphere 
around it ; until Mr. Cassilis asked her if she thought 
the sky was blue only over Earlshope. 

“ But I hope he will not send the wine ; it was a — 
what you call it ? joke, was it not ? ” she said. 

“ A joke, of course,” said Mr. Cassilis. “ We are 
very proud in this country, and do not take presents from 
rich people.” 

“ But I am not of your country,” she said, with a 
laugh. “ If he sends his stupid vin ordinaire , he sends 
it to me ; and I will not drink it ; you shall drink it all. 
Did he say he is coming over to see you soon ? ” 

“Well, no,” replied the Minister; “but since the ice 
is broken, nothing is more likely.” 

The phrase about the ice puzzled Coquette much : 
when it had been explained to her, they had already 
reached the Manse. But where was the Whaup ? No- 
body had seen him. 


46 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE CRUCIFIX. 

“ I am going to sea,” said the Whaup, suddenly pre- 
senting himself before Coquette. She looked up with 
her soft dark eyes, and said, — 

“ Why you go to sea ? ” 

“ Because,” said the Whaup, evidently casting about 
for an excuse, “ because the men of this country should 
be a seafaring race, as their forefathers were. We can- 
not all be living in big towns, and becoming clerks. I 
am for a hardier life. I am sick of staying at home., I 
cannot bear this idling any more. I have been down to 
the coast, and when I smell the salt air, and see the 
waves come tumbling on the coast, I hate to turn my 
face inland.” 

There was a sort of shamefaced enthusiasm in the 
lad’s manner; and Coquette, as she again looked up at 
him, perceived that, although he believed all that he had 
said, that was not the cause of his hasty determination. 
Yet the boy looked every inch a sailor; the sun-brown 
hair thrown back from his handsome face, and the clear 
moorland light shin.ng in his blue eyes. 

“ There is something else,” said the girl. “ Why you 
say nothing of all this before ? Why you must wish to 
become a sailor all at once ? ” 

“ And, if I must tell you,” said he, with a sudden 
fierceness, “ I will. I don’t choose, to stay here to see 
what I know will happen. You are surprised, perhaps? 
But you are a mere child. You have been brought up 
iji a French convent, or some such place. You think 
everybody in the world is like yourself, and you make 
v friends with anybody. You think they are all as good 
and as kind as yourself ; and you are- so light-hearted, 
you never stop to think or to suspect. Enough ; .you 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


47 


may go on your way, in spite of warning ; but I will not 
remain here to see my family disgraced by your becom- 
ing the friend and companion of a man like Lord Earls- 
hope.” 

He spoke warmly and indignantly, and the girl 
rather cowed before him, until he uttered the fatal word 
“ disgrace.” 

“ Disgrace ! ” she repeated, and a quick light sprang 
to her eyes. “ I have disgraced no one, not any time in 
my life. I will choose my own friends, and I will not 
be suspicious. You are worse than the woman here : 
she wants me to believe myself bad and wicked. Per- 
haps I am, I do not know, but I will not begin to sus- 
pect my friends of being bad. If he is so bad, why 
does your father go to his house ?” 

“ My father is as simple as you are,” said the Whaup, 
contemptuously. 

“ Then it is only you are suspicious ? I did not 
think it of you.” 

She looked hurt and vexed, and a great compunc- 
tion filled the heart of the Whaup. 

“ Look here,” he said, firmly (and in much better 
English than was customary with him), “you are my 
cousin, and it is my business to warn you when you are 
likely to get into trouble. But don't imagine I’m going 
to persecute you. No. You may do as you like. Per- 
haps you are quite right. Perhaps it is only that I am 
suspicious. But, as you are my cousin, I don’t wish to 
stand by and see what is likely to come, and so I am 
going off. The sea will suit me better than a college 
life, or a doctor’s shop, or a pulpit.” 

Coquette rose from her seat, and began to walk up. 
and down the room in deep distress. 

“ I must go,” she said ; “ it is I who must go away 
from here. ' I bring wretchedness when I come here ; 
my friends are made miserable ; it is my fault, I should 
not have come. In France I was very happy, they 
used to call me the peacemaker at school — and all the 
people there were cheerful and kind. Here I am wicked, . 
I do not know how, and the* cause of contention and 


4 s 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


pain. Ah, why you go away because of me ! ” she sud- 
denly exclaimed, as she took his hand, while tears 
started to her eyes. “ It ddes not matter to me if I go ; 
I am nobody ; I have no home to break up. I can go 
away, and nobody be the worse.” 

“ Perhaps it is the best thing you can do,” he said 
frankly. “But. if you go, I will go with you — to take 
care of you.” 

Coquette laughed. 

“You are incomprehensible,” she said. “Why not 
take care of me here ? ” 

“ Will you give me that duty ? ” he asked, calmly. 

“Yes,” she said, with a bright smile, “you shall 
take care of me as much — as much as you can.” 

“ Mind, it is no joke,” said he. “ If I resolve to 
take care of you, I will do it ; and anybody interfer- 
ing 

He did not finish the sentence. 

“You will fight for me?” she said, putting her 
hand on his arm, and leading him over to the window. 
“ Do you see those clouds away over the sea ; how they 
come on, and on, and go away ? These are the moods 
of a man, his promises, his intentions. But overhead 
do you see the blue sky ? that is the patience of a wo- 
man. Sometimes the clouds are dark, sometimes white, 
but the sky is always the same : is it not ? ” 

“ H’m ! ” said the Whaup, with a touch of scorn, 
“ that is the romantic stuff they teach you at your 
French school, is it ? It is very pretty, but it isn’t true. 
A man has more patience and more steadfastness than 
a woman. What you meant was, I suppose, that what- 
ever I might be to you, you would always be the same 
to me. Perhaps so. We shall see in a few years. 
But you will never find any difference in me, after any 
number of years, if you want somebody to take your 
part. You may remember what I say now afterwards.” 

“I think I could always trust you,” she said, looking 
rather wistfully at him with those dark eyes that he had 
almost ceased to regard as foreign and strange. “ You 
have been very good to me since I came here.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


49 


“ And I have found out something new for you,” he 
said, eagerly ; so glad was he to fix and establish those 
amicable relations. “ I hear you were pleased because 
Lord Earlshope had French things for you to eat and 
drink ? ” 

“Yes, I was pleased,” she said, timidly, and look- 
ing down. 

“ But you don’t know that there is a town close by 
here as like St. Nazaire as it can be : wouldnaye like to 
see that ? ” 

“ It is impossible,” she said. 

“ Come and see,” he replied. 

Coquette very speedily discovered that the Whaup 
refusing to accept of Lord Earlshope’s invitation, had 
gone off by himself on a visit to Saltcoats ; that he had 
fallen in with some sailors there : that he had begun 
talking with them of France and of the French seaports; 
and that one of the men had delighted him by saying 
that on one side the very town he was in resembled the 
old place at the mouth of the Loire. Of course Miss 
Coquette was in great anxiety to know where this 
favored town was situated, and would at once have 
started off in quest of it. 

“ Let us go up to your parlor, and I will show it to 
you,” said the Whaup. 

So they went upstairs, and went to the window. It 
was getting towards the afternoon, and a warm light 
from the southwest lay over the fair yellow country, 
with its dark lines of hedge and copse, its ruddy streaks 
of sand, and the distant glimmer of a river. Seaward 
there was a lowering which presaged a storm ; and the 
black line of the Saltcoats houses fronted a plain of water 
which had a peculiar light shining along its surface. 

“That is the town,” said the Whaup, pointing with 
a calm air of pride to Saltcoats. 

“ I see nothing but a line of slates, and a church 
that seems to stand out in the sea,” said Coquette, with 
some disappointment. 

“ But you must go near to see the old stone wall, 
and the houses built over it, and the pier and harbor.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


fO 


“ Ah. is it like that ? ” cried his companion, clasping 
her hands. “ Is it like St. Nazaire ? Are there boats ? 
and an old church ? and narrow streets ? Oh, do let 
us go there now ! ” 

“ Would you rather see that than drink Lord Earls- 
hope’s vin ordinaire ?” said the Whaup, with a cold 
severity. 

“ Pah ! ” she cried, petulantly. “ You do give me no 
peace with your Lord Earlshope. I wish you would 
fight him, not frighten me with such nonsense. I will 
believe you are jealous you stupid boy. But if you 
will take me t„o St. Nazaire, to this place, I will for- 
give you everything,, and I will — what can I do for you ! 
I will kiss you, I will sew a hankerchief for you, any- 
thing.” 

The Whaup blushed very red, but frowned all the 
same. 

“ I will take you to Saltcoats,” said he ; “ but we in 
this country don’t like young ladies to be so free with 
their favors ” 

Coquette looked rather taken down, and only ven- 
tured to say, by way of submissive apology, — 

“ You are my cousin, you know.” 

They were about to slip out of the house unper- 
ceived, when Leezibeth confronted them. 

“ Beg your pardon, Miss, but I would like to hae a 
word wi’ ye,” she said, in a determined tone, as she 
blocked up their way. 

The Whaup began to look fierce. 

“ It is seventeen years come Michaelmas,” said 
Leezibeth, in set and measured tones, “ since I cam’ to 
this house, and a pious and God-fearing house it has 
been, as naebcdy, will gainsay. We who are but ser- 
vants have done our pairt, I hope, to preserve its char- 
acter ; though in His sight there are nae servants and 
nae masters, for He poureth contempt upon princes, 
and causeth them to wander in the wilderness, and yet 
setteth the poor on high from affliction, and maketh 
Him families like a flock. I wouldna distinguish be- 
tween master and servant in the house ; but when the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


5 1 

master is blind to the things of his household, then it 
would ill become an honest servant, not afraid to give 
her testimony ” 

“ Leezibeth,” said the Whaup, “your talk is like 
a crop o’ grass after three months’ rain. It‘s good 
for neither man or beast, being but a b/as/i o water!' 

“ As for ye, sir,” retorted Leezibeth, angrily, “it was 
an ill day for ye that ye turned aside to dangle after an 
idle woman — ” 

“As sure as daith, Leezibeth,” said the Whaup, in 
his strongest vernacular, “I’ll gar ye gang skelpin’ 
through the air like a splinter, if ye dinna keep a civil 
tongue in your head.” 

“ But what is it all about ? ” said Coquette, in deep 
dismay. “What have I done ? Have I done any more 
wrong? I know not ; you must tell me ’’ 

“ And is it not true, Miss,” said Leezibeth, fixing 
her keen gray eye on the culprit, “ that ye daur to keep 
a crucifix, the symbol of the woman that sits on seven 
hills, right over your head in your bed ; and have in- 
troduced this polluting thing into an honest man’s house, 
to work wickedness wi’, and set a snare before our 
feet ? ” • 

“ I do not know what you mean by seven hills, or a 
woman,” said Coquette, humbly. “ I thought the cross 
was a symbol of all religion. If it annoys you, I will 
take it down ; but my mother gave it to me ; I cannot 
put it away altogether. I will hide it, if it annoys you ; 
but I cannot, surely you will not ask me to part with 
it altogether ” 

“ You shall not part with it,” said the Whaup, draw- 
ing himself up to his full height. “ Let me see the man 
or woman who will touch that crucifix, though it had on 
it the woman o’ Babylon herself ! ” 

Leezibeth looked dazed for a moment. It was almost 
impossible that such words should have been uttered 
by the eldest son of the Minister, and for a moment she 
was inclined to disbelieve the testimony of her ears. Yet 
there before her stood the lad, tall, proud, handsome, and 
with his eyes burning and his teeth set. And there be- 


5 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


side him stooa the witch-woman who had wrought this 
perversion in him ; who had come to work destruction 
in this quiet fold. 

“ I maun gang to the Minister,” said Leezibeth, in des- 
pair. “ Andrew and I maun settle this maitter, or else 
set out, in our auld age, for a new resting-place.” 

“ And the sooner the Manse is rid of two cantanker- 
ous old idiots the better ! ” said the Whaup. 

Leezibeth bestowed upon him a glance more of wonder 
and fear than of anger, and then went her way. 

“ Come ! ” said the Whaup to his companion. “ We 
maun run for it, or we shall see no St. Nazaire this 
night.” 

Then Coquette, feeling very guilty, found herself 
stealing away from the Manse, led by the Minister’s 
dare-devil son. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

SALTCOATS.. 

The two’fugitives fled from the Manse, and crossed 
over the moor, and went down to the road leading to 
Saltcoats, in very diverse moods. The Whaup made 
light of the affair of the crucifix, and laughed at it as a 
good joke. Coquette was more thoughtful, and a trifle 
angry. 

“ This is too much,” she said. “ I am not in the 
habit to make enemies, and I cannot live like this ; to be 
looked at as something very bad. If I do not know the 
feelings of your country about music, about Sunday, about 
religion, and it seems even a crime that I shall be cheer- 
ful and merry at times, why not tell me instead of scold ? 
I will do what they want, but I will not be treated like 
a child. It is too much this Leesibess, and her harsh 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


S3 


voice and her scolding. It is too much, it is not bear- 
able, it is a beastly shame !” 

“ A what ? ” said the Whaup. 

“ A beastly shame,” she repeated, looking at him 
rather timidly. 

The Whaup burst into a roar of laughter. 

“ Is it not right ? v she said. “ Papa did use to say 
that when he was indignant.” 

“ Oh, it is intelligible enough,” said the Whaup, 
“ quite intelligible ; but young ladies in this country do 
not say such things.” 

“ I will remember,” said Coquette, obediently. 

The Whaup now proceeded to point out to his com- 
panion that, after all, there was a good deal to be said on 
the side of Leezibeth and her husband, Andrew. Co- 
quette, he said, had given them some cause to complain. 
The people of the Manse, whom Coquette took to rep- 
resent the people of the country, were as kindhearted 
as people anywhere else ; but they had their customs, 
their beliefs, their prejudices, to which they clung tena- 
ciously ( just like people elsewhere ) ; and especially in 
this matter of the crucifix she had wounded their feel- 
ings by introducing into a Protestant manse the emblem 
of a religion which they regarded with horror. 

u But why is it that you regard any religion with hor- 
ror ? ” said Coquette. “ If it is religion, I think it cannot 
be much wicked ? If you do bring some Protestant em- 
blem into my Catholic church I shall not grumble ; I 
would say, we all believe in the one God ; you may have 
a share of my pew ; you may pray just beside me ; and 
we all look to the one Father who is kind to us,” 

The Whaup shook his head. 

“ That is a dangerous notion ; but I cannot argue 
with you about it. Everything you say, everything you 
do, is somehow so natural and fitting and easy that it 
seems it must be right. It is all a part of yourself, and 
all so perfect that nobody would have it altered, even if 
you were wrong.”' 

• “ You do say that ? ” said Coquette, with a blush of 
pleasure. 


54 


A DAUGHTER OF I1E TH. 

“ That sort of vague religious sentiment you talk of 
would be contemptible in anybody else, you know,” said 
the Whaup, frankly, “it would show either weakness of 
reasoning, or indifference ; but in you it is something 
that makes people like you. Why, I have watched you 
again and again in the parlor at the manse ; and whether 
you let your hand rest on the table, or whether you look 
out of the window, or whether you come near the fire, 
you are always easy and graceful. It is a gift you have 
of making-yourself, without knowing it, a picture. When 
you came out, I thought that gray woolly shawl round 
your shoulders was pretty ; and now you have put it round 
your head it is quite charming. You can’t help it. And 
so you can’t help that light and cheerful way of looking 
at religion, and of being happy and contented, and of 
making yourself a pleasure to the people round about 
you.” 

Coquette began to laugh ; and the Whaup came to an 
uncomfortable stop in the midst of his rapid enthusiasm. 

When you talk like that,” she said, “ I think I am 
again in France, I am so light-hearted. You approve of 
me, then ? ” she added, timorously. 

Approve of her ! Was it possible that she could care 
for Lis approval ? And in what language could he ex- 
press his opinion of her save in the only poetry familiar 
to Airlie Manse ? “ The King's daughter is all glorious 

within : her clothing is of wrought gold. She shall be 
brought unto the King in raiment of needlework : the 
virgins her companions that follow her shall be brought 
unto thee. With gladness and rejoicing shall they be 
brought : they shall enter into the King’s palace.” Only 
this King's daughter was without companions, she was 
all alone ; and the Whaup wondered how this pure and 
strange jewel came to be dropped in the centre of a 
Scotch moor. 

The wind was blowing hard from the southwest ; the 
region of rain. Arran was invisible ; and in place of the 
misty peaks there was a great wall of leaden-gray sky, 
from the base of which came lines and lines of white 
waves, roaring in to the shore. Coquette drew her thick 


A DAUGH1FK OF h£ TH. 


55 


gray plaid more closely around her, and pressed on, for 
St. Nazaire now lay underneath them, a dark line of 
houses between the sea and the land. 

“ What is that woman,” said Coquette, looking along 
the road, “ who stands with the flowers in her hand, and 
her hair flying ? Is she mad ? Is she Ophelia come to 
Scotland ? ” 

Mad enough the girl looked ; for as they came up to 
her they found her a bonnie Scotch lass of sixteen 
or seventeen, who sobbed at intervals, and ‘ kept cast- 
ing tearful glances all around her. She carried in one 
hand her bonnet, in the other a bunch of flowers ; and 
the wind that had scattered the flowers, and left but a 
remnant in her hand, had also unloosed .her nut-brown 
hair, and blown it in tangled masses about her face and 
neck. She stood aside, in a shamed way, to let the 
strangers pass ; but the Whaup stopped. 

“ What is the matter wi’ ye, my lass ? ” said he. 

“ I had my shoon and stockings in my bundle,” she 
said, while the tears welled up in her blue eyes, “ and 
I hae dropped them out : and I canna gang back the 
road to look for them, for I maun be in Saltcoats afore 
kye-time.” 

“ What does she say ? ” asked Coquette. 

“ She has only lost her shoes and stockings, that’s all,” 
said the Whaup. “ But it is bad enough for her, I dare 

say.” 

In an instant Coquette had out her purse, a dainty 
little Parisian thing, in mother-of-pearl, with filagree work 
round, and taken therefrom two Napoleons. 

“ Here 0 ” she said, going forward to' the girl, “you 
.must not cry any more about that. Take my little 
present, and you will buy more shoes and more stockings 
for yourself.” 

The girl eyed the money with some dismay, and prob- 
ably wondered if this were not a temptress who had 
suddenly appeared to offer her gold, and who spoke with 
a strange sound in her voice. 

“ Dinna be a sumph ! ” said the Whaup, who could 
talk sufficiently broad Scotch when occasion demanded. 


5 ^ 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


“Take the money the leddy offers ye, and thank her 
for’t.” 

The girl accepted the foreign-looking coins, and 
seemed much distressed that, like the peasantry of Scot- 
land in general, she did not know how to express the 
gratitude she felt. Her thanks were in her eyes, and 
these spoke very eloquently. But, j ust as her benefactors 
were moving on, a man came along the road with some- 
thing dangling from his hands. Great was the joy of 
the girl on perceiving that he had found her lost prop- 
erty ; and when he had come up, and delivered the 
things to her, she advanced with the money to Coquette. 

“ Thank ye, mem,” said she. 

“ Won’t you keep the money, and buy something for 
your little brothers and sisters, if you have any?” 

This offer was declined, with just an inkling of pride 
in the girl’s manner ; and the next instant she was 
hurrying to Saltcoats as fast as her bare feet could carry 
her. 

Now this incident had delayed the two runaways much 
longer than they suspected ; and when they had got 
down to Saltcoats they were much later than they 
dreamed. Indeed, they never looked at the town clock 
in passing, so satisfied were they that they had plenty 
of time. 

“ This is not like St. Nazaire,” said Coquette, decid- 
edly. 

“ You have not seen it yet,” returned the Whaup, 
just as confidently. 

A few minutes afterwards Coquette and he stood upon 
the shore. The long bay of Saltcoats, sweeping round 
from the far promontory of Troon, fronted a heaving, 
tumbling mass of white-crested waves, that came rolling 
onward from under a great leaden breadth of sky ; and 
as they gazed out on this wintry-looking sea they had on 
their right hand the curve of the bay, ending in the gray 
stone wall of the town, which projected into the water, 
with here and there a crumbling old house peeping over 
it. The church spire rose above the tallest of the houses 
on the side of the land, and aided the perspective of the 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


57 


lines, which ran out to a point at the end of the wall — 
so much so that one would almost imagine the site of the 
building had been chosen by one who had studied the 
picturesque opportunities of the bay. 

“ It is St. Nazaire in winter ! ” cried Coquette, her 
voice half lost in the roar of waves. 

“ Didn’t I tell you,” shouted the Whaup, triumph- 
antly, who had never seen St. Nazaire, but only knew 
that, on this side, Saltcoats looked singularly like a little 
French walled town. “ Now will you come and see the 
harbor ? ” 

But she would not leave. She stood there, with her 
shawl fluttering in the fierce wind, and with her slight 
form scarcely able to withstand the force of the hurri- 
cane, looking out on the rushing white crests of the 
waves, on the black line of the town perched above the 
rocks and the ruddy sand, and on the lowering western 
sky, which seemed to be slowly advancing with its gloom. 
There was no sign of life near them ; not even a sailor 
on the watch, nor a ship running before the wind ; noth- 
ing but the long and level shore, and the great wild mass 
of waves, which had a voice like thunder far out beyond 
the mere dashing on the beach. 

“ Imagine what it would be,” she said, “ to have one 
you loved out on that fearful sea, and to come down here 
at night to hear the savage message that the waves 
bring. It would make me mad. You will not go to 
sea ? ” she added, suddenly, turning to him with an ur- 
gent pleading in her face and her voice. 

“ No, of course not,” he said, looking strangely at 
her. 

Was it possible, then, that this vague determination 
of his had lingered in her mind as a sort of threat ? Did 
she care to have him remain near her ? 

“ Come,” said he, “ we must hurry, if you mean to 
see the harbor and the old ruins at the point. Besides, 
I want you to rest for a minute or two at an inn here, 
and you shall see whether there is no vin ordinaire in 
the country except at Earlshope.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


53 

“ Earlshope — Earlshope,” she said. “ Why do you 
talk always of Earlshope ? ” 

The Whaup would not answer, but led her back 
through the town, and stopped on their way to the har- 
bor a-t the Saracen’s Head. Here Coquette had a biscuit 
and a glass of claret, and was further delighted to per- 
ceive that the window of the room they were in looked 
out upon a very French-looking courtyard of stone, sur- 
rounded by a high wall which appeared to front the sea. 

“ It is St. Nazaire in winter,” she repeated : “ the 
gray stones, the windy sea, the chill air. Yet how dark 
it becomes ! ” 

Indeed, when they had resumed their journey, and 
gone out to the point beyond the little harbor, on which 
stand what looked like the remains of an ancient for- 
tress, the storm had waxed mVich more fierce. They 
passed through the ruins on to the rocks, and found 
themselves alone in front of the sea, which had now be- 
come of a lurid green. It was,. in fact, much lighter in 
color than the gloomy sky above ; and the gray green 
waves, tumbling in white, could be seen for an immense 
distance under this black canopy of cloud. The wind 
whistled around them, and dashed the spray of the sea 
into their blinded eyes. The wildness of the scene, 
the roaring of wind and sea around, produced a strange 
excitement in the girl ; and while she clung to the 
Whaup’s arm to steady herself on the rocks, she laughed 
aloud in defiance of the storm* At this momenta glare 
of steel-blue light flashed through the driving gloom in 
front of them, and almost simultaneously v there was a 
rattle of thunder overhead, which reverberated among 
the Arran hills. Then came the rain, and they coulcl 
hear the hissing of it on the sea beforedt reached them. 

“ Shall we make for the *town,” cried the Whaup, 
“ or shelter ourselves in the ruins ? ” 

He had scarcely spoken when another wild glare burst 
before their eyes, and made them stagger back, while 
the rattle of the thunder seemed all around their ears. 

“Are you hurt ? ” said Coquette, for her companion 
did not speak. 


A DAUGHTER OF MET//. 


59 


“ I think not,” said the Whaup, “ blit my arm tingles 
up to the elbow, and I can scarcely move it This is 
close work. We must hide ip the ruins, or you will be 
wet through.” 

They went inside the old building, and crept down 
and sat mute and expectant under Coquette’s outstretched 
plaid. All around th^h was the roaring of the waves, 
with the howling of the gusts of wind and rain; and 
ever and anon the rough stone walls before them would 
be lit up by a flash of blue lightning, which stunned their 
eyes for several seconds. 

“ This is a punishment for our running away,” said 
Coquette. 

“Nonsense!” said the Whapp. “This storm will 
wreck many a boat ; and it would be rather hard if a lot 
of sailors should be drowned merely to give us a drouk- 
ing.” 

“ What is that ? ” 

“ A wetting, such as we are likely to get. Indeed I 
don’t think there is much use in stopping here, for it will 
soon be so dark that we shall not see to gang along the 
rocks to the shore.” 

This consideration made them rise and leave at once ; 
and sure enough it had grown very dark within the past 
half-hour. Night was rapidly approaching as they mad 
their way through Saltcoats to gain the road to Airl 
Nor did the storm abate one- jot of its fury; and loi 
before they had begun to^asc^nd towards the moorlam 
country the Whaup wash's wet as though he had been 
lying in a river. Coquette’s thick plaid saved her some- 
what. 

“ What shall we do ? ” she said. “ They will be very 
angry, and this time with reason.” 

“ I shouldn’t care whether they were angry or not,” 
said the Whaup, “ if only you were at home and in dry 
clothes.” 

“ But you are wetter than I am.” 

“ But I don’t care,” said the Whaup, although his 
teeth were chattering in his head. 

So they struggled on, in the darkness and wind and 


6o 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

driving rain, until it seemed to Coquette that the way 
under foot was strangely spongy and wet. She said 
nothing, however, until the Whaup exclaimed, in a 
serious voice, — 

“ We are off the road, and on the moor somewhere.” 

Such was the fact. They had got up to the high 
land only to find themselves lost in a morass, with no 
means of securing the slightest guidance. There was 
nothing for it but to blunder on helplessly through the 
dark, trusting to find some indication of their where- 
abouts. At last they came to an enclosure and a foot- 
path ; and as they followed this,' hoping to reach the 
Airlie road, they came upon a small house, which had a 
light in its windows. 

“ It is Earlshope Lodge,” said the Whaup. “ And 
there are the gates.” 

“ Oh, let us go in and beg for some shelter,” said 
Coquette, whose courage had forsaken her the moment 
she found they had lost their way. 

“ You may,” said a voice from the mass of wet gar- 
ments beside her, “ you may go in, and get dry clothes, 
if you like ; but I will not.” 


CHAPTER IX. 

coquette’s promise. 

“ Good-morning, Miss Cassilis,” said Lord Earlshope. 
as he met Coquette coming over the moorland road, 
“ I hear you had an adventure last night. But why did 
not you go into the lodge and get dried ? ” 

“Why?” said Coquette, “why, because Cousin 
Tom and I were as wet as we could be, and it was better 
to go on straight to the Manse without waiting. Have 
you seen him this morning ? ” 

“ Your cousin ? No.” 


A DAUGHTER OF IifiTH. 


61 


“ I am looking for him. I think he believes he is in 
disgrace at the Manse, and has gone off for some wild 
mischief. He has taken all his brothers with him ; and 
I did hear him laughing and singing as he always does 
when he, how do you call it ? when he breaks out.” 

“ Let me help you to look for him,” said Lord Earls- 
hope. “ I am sure he ought to be proud of your solici- 
tude, if anything is wanted to make him happier than he 
is. How thoroughly that handsome lad seems to enjoy 
the mere routine of living ! ” 

“You talk as if you were an old man,” said Coquette, 
with one of her bright laughs. “ Do not you enjoy liv- 
ing ?” 

“ Enjoy it ? No. If the days pass easily, without 
much bother, I am contented ; but happiness does not 
visit a man who looks upon himself as a failure at twenty- 
seven.” 

“ I do not understand you,” said Coquette, with a 
puzzled air. 

“ You would provoke me into talking about myself, 
as ii; L were a hypochondriac. Yet I have no story, 
nothmg to amuse you with.” 

“ Oh, I do wish you to tell me all about yourself,” 
said Coquette, with a gracious interest. “ Why you re- 
main by yourself in this place ? Why you have no co 
panions, no occupation ? You are mysterious.” 

“I am' not even that,” he said, with a smile, 
have not even a mystery. Yet I will tell you all al 
myself, if you care to hear, as we go along. Stop 
when I tire you.” 

So her companion began and told her all about him- 
self and his friends, his college life, his relations, his ac- 
quaintances, his circumstances ; a rather lengthy narra- 
tive, which need not be repeated here. Coquette learned 
a great deal during that time, however, and saw for the 
first time Lord Earlshope in a true light. He was no 
longer to her a careless and light-hearted young man, 
who had made her acquaintance out of indolent curiosity, 
and seemed inclined to flirt with her for mere amuse- 
ment. He was, in his own words, a failure at twenty- 


6 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


seven ; a man whose extremely morbid disposition had 
set to work years ago to eat into his life. He had had 
his aspirations and ambitions ; and had at length com 
vinced himself that he had not been granted the intellect 
to accomplish any of his dreams. What remained to 
him ? 

“ I was not fit to do anything,” he said, “ with those 
political, social, and other means that are meant to se- 
cure the happiness of multitudes. All I could do was 
to try to secure my own happiness, and help the philan- 
thropists by a single unit.” 

“ Have you done that ? ” said Coquette. 

“ No,” he rejoined, with a careless shrug. “ I think 
I have failed in that, too. All my life I have been cut- 
ting open my bellows to see where the wind came from ; 
and if you were to go over Earlshope you would discover 
the remains of twenty different pursuits that 1 have at- 
tempted and thrown aside. Do you know, Miss Cassilis, 
that I have even ceased to take any interest in the prob- 
lem of myself ; in the spectacle of a man physically as 
strong as most men, and mentally so vacillating that he 
has never been able to hold an opinion or get up a preju- 
dice to swear by. Even the dullest men have convic- 
: ons about politics ; but I am a Tory in sympathy and 
adical in theory, so that I am at war with myself on 
tty nearly every point. Sometimes I have fancied 
there are a good many men in this country more or 
in my condition ; and then it has occurred to me 
an invasion of England would be a good thing.” 
“Ah, you would have something to believe in then; 
something to fight for ! •’ said Coquette. 

“Perhaps. Yet I don’t know. If the invaders should 
happen to have better educational institutions than Eng- 
land, as is very likely, oughtn’t I to fight on their side, 
and wish them to be successful, and give us a lesson? 
England, you know, owes everything to successive inva- 
sions ; for the proper test of the invader’s political insti- 
tutions was whether they could hold their own in the 
country after he had planted his foot there. But I have 
really to beg your pardon. I must not teach you the » 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


6 3 

trick of following everything to the vanishing point 
You have the greatest of earthly blessings ; you enjoy 
life without asking yourself why.” 

“ But I do not understand,” said Coquette, “ how I 
can enjoy more than you. Is it not pleasant to come 
out in the sunshine like this, after the night’s rain, and 
see the clear sky, and smell the sweet air ? You enjoy 
that ” 

“ I cannot help wondering what appetite it will give 
me.” 

Coquette made an impatient gesture with her hands. 

“ At least you do enjoy speaking with me here on 
this pleasant morning ? ” 

“ The more we talk,” he said, “the more I am puz- 
zled by the mystery of the difference between you and 
me. Why, the passing of a bright-colored butterfly is 
an intense pleasure to you. I have seen you look up to ' 
a gleam of blue sky, and clasp your hands, and laugh 
with delight. Every scent of a flower, every pleasant 
sound, every breath of sunshine and air, is a new joy to 
you ; arid you are quite satisfied with merely being alive. 

Of course, it is an advantage to be alive; but there are 
few who make so much of it as you do.” 

“You think too much about it,” said Coquette. • 

“ When you marry some day, you will have more prac- 
tical things to think of, and you will be happier.” 

At the mention of the word marriage a quick look 
of annoyance seemed to pass across his face, but she did 
not notice it, and he replied lightly, — 

“ Marriages are made in heaven, Miss Cassilis, and I 
am afraid they won’t do much for me there.” 

“Ah ! do not you believe in heaven ? ” she said, and 
the brown eyes were turned anxiously to his face. 

“ Do not let us talk about that,” said he, indifferently. 

“ I do not wish to alienate from me the only companion 
I have ever found in this place. Yet I do not disbelieve 
in what you believe, I know. What were you saying 
about marriage ? ” he added, with an apparent effort. 
“Do you believe that marriages are made in heaven ? ” 



6 4 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


“ I do not know,” replied Coquette ; “ the people- 
say that sometimes.’’ 

“ I was only thinking,” remarked Lord Earlshope, 
with an apparently careless laugh, “ that if the angels ■ 
employ their leisure in making mairiages, they some- 
times turn out a very inferior article. Don’t you think 
so ? ” 

Coquette was not a very observant young person, 
she was much too occupied with her own round of inno- 
cent little enjoyments ; but it did strike her that her 
companion spoke with a touch of bitterness in his tone. 
However, they did not pursue the subject further, for;, 
much to their surprise, they suddenly stumbled upon, 
the Whaup and his brothers. 

The boys were at a small bridge crossing the stream 
that ran down from Airlie moor; and they were so 
much occupied with their own pursuits that they took 
no notice of the approach of Coquette and her com- 
panion. Lord Earlshope, indeed, at once motioned to 
Coquette to preserve silence ; and, aided by a line of 
small alder and hazel bushes which grew on the banks 
of the rivulet, they drew quite near to the Minister’s 
sons without being perceived. 

Coquette was right : the Whaup had “ broken out.” 
Feeling assured that he would be held responsible for 
all the crimes of yesterday ; the affair of the crucifix ; 
the clandestine excursion to Saltcoats, and the mishaps, 
that accrued therefrom; the Whaup had reflected that 
it was as well to be hanged for a sheep as a lamb. When 
Coquette and her companion came in sight of him he 
was fulfilling the measure of his iniquities. 

What had moved him to vent his malignity on his 
younger brother Wattie, unless it was that Wattie was 
the “ best boy ” of the Manse, and, further, that he had 
shown an enmity to Coquette, must remain a mystery ; 
but at this moment Wattie was depending from the 
small bridge, his head a short distance from the water, 
his feet held close to the parapet by the muscular arms 
of the Whaup, while one of the other boys had beep 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 65 

made an accomplice to the extent of holding on to Wat- 
tie’s trousers. 

*“ Noo, Wattie,” said the Whaup, “ ye maun say a 
sweer afore ye get up. I’m no jokin’, and unless ye be 
quick, ye’ll be in the water.” 

But would Wattie, the paragon of scholars, the ex- 
emplar to his brothers, imperil his soul by uttering a 
“ bad word ? ” Surely not. Wattie was resolute. He 
knew what punishment was held in reserve for swearers, 
and preferred the colder element. 

“ Wattie,” said the Whaup, “ say a sweer, or ye’ll 
gang into the burn, as sure as daith.” 

No ; Wattie would rather be a martyr. Whereupon, 
the bridge being a very low one, the Whaup and his 
brothers lowered Wattie a few inches, so that the ripples 
touched his head. Wattie set up a fearful howl, and his 
brothers raised him to his former position. 

“ Now will ye say it ? ” 

“ Deevil ! ” cried Wattie. “ Let me up ; I hae said 
a sweer.” 

The other brothers raised a demoniac shout of 
triumph over this apostasy ; and the Whaup’s roars of 
laughter had nearly the effect of precipitating Wattie 
into the stream in downright earnest. But this back- 
sliding on the part of their pious brother did not seem 
to the tempters sufficiently serious. 

“ Ye maun say a worse sweer, Wattie. “Deevil' is 
no bad enough.” 

“ I’ll droon first ! ” said Wattie, whimpering in his 
distiess, “and then ye’ll. get your paiks,* I’m thinking.” 

Down went Wattie’s hoad into the burn again ; and 
this time he was raised with his mouth sputtering out 
the contents it had received. 

“ I’ll say what ye like, I’ll say what ye like ! D—n, 
is that bad enough ? ” 

With another unholy shout of derision, Wattie was 
raised and set on the bridge. 

“ Noo,” said the Whaup, standing over him, “let me 
tell you this, my man. The next time ye gang to my 

* Anglice — a thrashing. 


66 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


faither, and tell a story about any one o’ us, or the next 
time ye say a word against the French lassie, as ye ca’ 
her, do ye ken what I’ll do? I’ll take ye back to my 
faither by the lug, and I’ll tell him ye were sweariiT like 
a trooper down by the burn ; and every one o’ us will 
testify against ye. Ma certes, mv man, I’m thinking *it 
will be your turn to consider paiks. My faither has a 
bonnie switch, Wattie, a braw switch, Wattie ; and whaf , 
think ye he’ll do to his well-behaved son that gangs about 
the countryside swearin’ just like a Kilmarnock ? ” 

Coquette held out her hand to her companion. 

“Good-bye,” she said, “and I do thank you for 
bringing me here.” 

Lord Earlshope perceived that he was dismissed, 
but did not know why. He was not aware that Co- 
quette was trembling lest she should be seen in his for- 
bidden company. 

“ Shall I see you to-morrow ? ” he said, as he took 
her hand. 

“ When it is fine I do always go out for a walk after 
breakfast,” she said, lightly ; and so they parted. 


CHAPTER X. 

THE SCHOOLMASTER. 

Coquette would have given much to have recaUed 
these words. She felt that they implied a promise; and 
that if she kept her promise she would find herself ham- 
pered by the weight of a secret. Now the girl abhorred 
every sort of restraint that interfered with the natural 
cheerfulness and lightness of her heart ; and no 
sooner had Lord Earlshope disappeared than she began 
to dread this thing that she had done. Why had he 
asked her to meet him ? Why did not he come to the 
Manse ? And while she stood irresolute, wondering 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


67 

how she could free herself from the chains that seemed 
r likely- to- bind her, the Whaup and his brothers made a 
dash* at the place of her concealment. 

*Hillo ! ” cried her cousin Tom, “ how did you come 
fere ? ” 

• “I came in search of you,” she said, glancing ner- 
vously around to see that Lord Earlshope was out of 
''sight. 

“ And you were spying on us, were you ? ” said the 
Whaup, with a laugh. 

“ Why do you ill-treat your brother so ? ” she said. 

“ It is no ill-treatment,” he said, in his best English. 
“ It is the execution 0' a sentence passed on him last 
night by the whole of us. We are the Vehmgericht of 
this neighborhood, Miss Coquette, and when any one 
injures you, appeal to us. You have only to name him, 
and we hamstring his cattle, set fire to his barn, and 
seize himself and pull out his teeth. Eh, Boys ? ” 

There was a general chorous of assent. 

“ But you must not call me by that name any more,” 
said the young lady, with a blush. 

“ Not Coquette any more ? I shall withdraw the 
name when I see you don’t deserve it,” said the Whaup, 
with cool insolence. It was clear he had “ broken out.” 

The Whaup now dismissed his brothers, and pro- 
ceeded to escort Coquette back across the moor. He 
explained, however, that he did not think it advisable 
for him to go into the Manse just then. 

“ Why ? ” said Coquette. “ I told Mr. Cassilis all 
about it ; he does not think you to blame.” 

“That means,” said her companion, “that you took 
the blame on yourself. But you only know the half.” 

With which the Whaup broke into another fit of 
laughter. When he had recovered, he told her the story. 
That morning, on issuing out, he heard Andrew and 
Leezibeth talking about his cousin in a not very com- 
plimentary fashion, and at once determined on revenge. 
There was an outhouse, in which were kept garden 
utensils, coal, and various other things, and this out- 
house had a door which was occasionally obstinate. 

‘4 


68 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


Now the Whaup seeing Andrew at the far end of the 
garden, informed him that Mr. Cassilis wanted a spade 
brought to him ; and Andrew muttered “by and by.” 
Meanwhile the Whaup made his way to the outhouse, 
opened the door, and shut himself in. Two or three 
minutes afterwards Andrew came and lifted the latch. 
The door would not open. He shoved and shook ; it 
would not open, the reason being merely that the 
Whaup, who could see through a chink, had his foot 
against it. 

At last Andrew, obviously very angry, retired a few 
yards, made a race, and threw the whole of his weight 
upon the door. There was a crash, a stumble, a cry, and 
then a great pealing shriek of merriment as the Whaup 
jumped out of the place, leaving Andrew lying among a 
heap of tumbled pitchforks and handbarrows. The 
door had yielded so easily that Andrew had precipitated 
himself upon the floor of the outhouse, and now lay 
groaning. 

“ I don’t know what he said,” remarked the Whaup, 
as he recounted the adventure with great glee, “ but it 
didna sound to me like the Psalms of David.” 

“ Tom,” said his cousin, “ you area wicked boy. Why 
don’t you give up these school jokes ? You are tall and 
strong enough to be a man : why, you behave as if you 
were at school.” 

The Whaup was not in a repentant mood. 

“ I’m only half and between,” said he. “ I am a man 
some days — a boy others. You can’t expect me to change 
all at once, Miss Coquette.” 

“ You must not call me that name,” said she. “ It is 
not fair; I am not Coquette.” 

“ Oh, indeed,” said he. “ When did you see Lord 
Earlshope ? ” 

“ This morning,” said she, with a pout. 

The Whaup was instantly sobered. 

“ Was Lord Earlshope at the Manse ? ” he asked, 
coldly. 

Now was the time for Coquette to make a full con- 
fession. Indeed, she had admitted having seen Lord 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


69 


Earlshope that morning for the very purpose of telling 
the Whaup all about her half-promise, and so relieving 
her mind from its burden of secrecy. But as she looked 
at him she saw that his face had grown very implacable. 
She had not the courage to tell him. She said, in a 
timid way, — 

“ He met me as I was coming to look for you, and 
walked a bit of the way with me.” 

“ How far ? ” 

Coquette drew herself up a bit. 

“You have not the right to ask me such questions.” 

“ I understand now,” said the Whaup, calmly, “ how 
you looked caught when I found )ou at the bushes, and 
why you turned to look over the moor. I daresay he had 
come there with you, and sneaked away ” 

“ Sneaked ! sneaked \ ” said Coquette, warmly (al- 
though she only guessed at the meaning of the word). “I 
do not know what it is ; but Lord Earlshope is not afraid 
to be seen. Why should he be ? What is wrong in his 
going with me there-? And you think I do not know 
what is right for me to do.” 

“ Ah well,” said the Whaup, with an air of resigna- 
tion. “ I give you up. I see you are just like other 
women.” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said Coquette, angrily, though 
she kept her eyes down. 

“ Nothing of any importance,” said the Whaup, with 
a forced carelessness. “You profess you were doing 
what was right and fitting ; but you have not explained 
why you should have sent Earlshope away ; after all, he 
is a man, and would not have sneaked away but at your 
bidding ; or why you carefully hid from the whole of us 
that you had just left him. What was the reason of all 
that concealment and hypocrisy ? ” he added, with a 
touch of indignation. “ I know you were doing no 
wrong, I have no fear in that way for one that bears the 
name of Cassilis. But why make the pretence of having 
done wrong? Why try to hide it ? Isn’t that very 
^voman-like, isn’t that very deceitful ? And I thought you 
v kvere something different from other women.” 

I: . : . 


7 ° 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Til. 


She was nearly confessing the truth to him, that she 
had resorted to this unfortunate bit of concealment 
merely because she was afraid of him. But she knew 
that if she made this admission she would probably 
break down ; and, as she would not show any such 
symptom of weakness, she merely replied to him, with 
an air of proud indifference, — 

“ I cannot help it, if I am a woman.” 

Thereafter, dead silence. The two walked across 
the moor, some little distance apart, without uttering a 
word. When they reached the Manse, Coquette went 
to her own room and shut herself up, feeling very stern, 

' determined, and wretched. 

The Whaup, on the other hand, rendered desperate, 
resolved to deliver himself up into the hands of justice. 
He walked into his father’s study, in order to impeach 
himse f and demand punishment (the Whaup felt that 
banishment from Airlie would almost have been wel- 
come then), but Mr. Cassilis was outside in the garden. 
When the Whaup at length perceived his father, and ap- 
proached him, he found that the Schoolmaster was seek- 
ing an audience. 

The Schoolmaster was a short, stout, red-haired man, 
with horn-rimmed spectacles. He had a bushy red beard, 
and held his head well drawn back : so that, but for his 
deefctive stature, he would have looked a man of impor- 
tance. However, Nature, not generous as regards inches, 
had been kinder to him in his voice, which was deep and 
sonorous ; and it was the especial pride of Mr. Hineas 
Gillespie, Schoolmaster, Parish Clerk, and Grand Al- 
moner of Airlie, that he spoke a species of idiomatic 
English superior to the talk of the common, people his 
neighbors. It was only on rare occasions that he forgot 
himself, and relapsed into the familiar and expressive 
phraseology of the district. 

“ It is a fine, I might even say a beautiful, morning, 
he observed to Mr. Cassilis, as he came up. 

“ A beautiful morning, indeed,” said the Minister. 

At this moment the Whaup made his appearance, 
and was at once saluted by the Schoolmaster. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


71 


“ Come along, young man,” he said, in his stately 
tones. “We may ask your aid, or, as I may say, your 
assistance, in this matter. Mr. Cassilis, may I inquire 
of you what is your opinion of the present Lord Earls- 
hope ; by which I mean, do you think him a fit compan- 
ion for one o’ your household ?” 

The Schoolmaster planted himself before the Minister, 
and fixed the glare of his horn-rimmed spectacles on him. 

“ The question is a wide one, Mr. Gillespie ” said the 
Minister, with a smile. “ I do not think we ought to set 
ourselves up in judgment upon our neighbors who may 
have been brought up under different lights from ours, 
and may surprise us at times, I admit, by their conduct. 
Nor would it be fitting for them who try to walk accord- 
ing to the Word to cut themselves off from all commun- 
ication with people who are less particular, for these 
might benefit by example and the kindly teaching of ac- 
quaintanceship.” 

Mr. Gillespie shook his head. 

“ I would not interfere with your section of the pub- 
lic duties of this parish,” observed the Schoolmaster. 
“ You ^.re the arbiter of morals and conduct, while I do 
my humble best, my endeavor, as I may say, with the 
education of our joint charge. But if ye will let me re- 
mark, sir, that we may be too easy with our ‘judgment, 
and encourage ungodliness by association therewith. 
For I would ask ye, Mr. Cassilis, if we are to draw no 
line between the good and the bad, what is the good, 
as I may say, of being good ? ” 

The Whaup grew very red in the face, and “ snirted ” 
with laughter. 

“ There are, Mr. Cassilis,” continued the Schoolmas- 
ter, without pausing for an answer, “there are those who 
err knowingly 4 and should not be encouraged ; there are 
those who err in ignorance, and should be informed. Of 
these last, by way of example, is Mrs. Drumsynie, the 
wife of a carter in Dairy, who was taken home on Tues- 
day last with a broken leg. Now this woman had so far 
misconstrued the workings of Providence, as I may say, 
that when her husband was brought in to her on a shut- 

i ; "T . 


7 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


ter, she exclaimed, ‘ I thank the Lord we will get some- 
thing out o’ the Society at last ’ — meaning the Benefit 
Society, of which I am the secretary. This woman, as 
I judge, was not to be taken as an irreverent or wicked 
Woman, but as one suffering from, or laboring under, as 
I may say, a misapprehension/’ 

“ I perceive, Mr. Gillespie,” said Mr. Cassilis, gravely ; 

“ but ye were observing ? ” 

“ I am coming to the point, sir. And I think I can- 
not do better than premise with a simple statement of 
fact. At this moment, or instant, as I may say, your 
niece is out walking alone with Lord Earlshope.” 

The Whaup’s face flushed with something else than 
laughter this time, when he saw the object of the School- 
master’s visit. 

“Ye may premise with what ye like,” said the lad, 
indignantly, “but that’s a daggont lee ! ” * 

“ Thomas ! ” cried the Minister, “ ye shall answer for 
this afterward.” 

But the Whaup was determined to have it out with 
his enemy. 

“ At this moment, or instant, as I may say,” he re- 
marked (and the Schoolmaster dared scarcely believe he 
was listening to such insolence from a boy whom he had 
many a time thrashed), “ Mr. Cassilis’s niece is in this 
house, and not wi’ Lord Earlshope at all. And suppose 
she had been, what then ? Is it a sin for a girl even to 
speak to him if she meets him ? Is it worse than for an 
auld man to come spying and telling tales ? And if an 
honest woman must not walk with Earlshope, would an 
honest man sit down at his table ? And who was it, Mr. 
Gillespie, proposed Lord Earlshope’s health at the last 
tenantry dinner ? ” 

This was a deadly thrust, and, having delivered it, 
the Whaup walked off. He was angry that he had been 
goaded into defending Lord Earlshope ; but his zeal in 
the cause of Coquette had carried him beyond such con- 

* Anglice — “a confounded lie 1 ” Daggont is apparently a corruption of 
‘ Dog on it! ” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


73 


siderations. He looked up at her window rather sadly 
as he passed. 

“ I suppose that I shall be sent to Glasgow for this,” 
he said to himself ; “ and she does not know it was done 
for her sake.” 

The Schoolmaster and the Minister were left looking 
at each other. 

I am apprehensive of that lad’s future,” remarked 
the Schoolmaster, “ if he gives way to such unruly gusts 
of passion, and betrays the symptoms, the evidences, I 
might even say, of a lawless and undisciplined mind.” 

“We will leave aside that for the present, Mr. Gilles- 
pie,” said the Minister, rather impatiently. “ I will ex- 
amine his conduct later on. In the mean time you have 
something to say about my niece.” 

“ She may be in the house,” began the School- 
master. 

“ She is in the house,” said the Minister, decisively. 
“ None of my boys has ever been known to tell a lie.” 

“ At all events, Mr. Cassilis, with my own eyes did I 
see her walking with that young man. That is all I 
have to say. I leave it to you to judge whether such 
conduct is becoming to one who may be regarded, or 
considered, as your daughter ; or, indeed, whether it is 
safe for herself. We have a duty, an obligation, I might 
even call it, to consider how our actions look in the eyes 
of our neighbor, so as not to offend, but to walk decently 
and uprightly ” 

“ Mr. Gillespie,” said the Minister, interrupting him 
somewhat rudely, “ you may depend on it that my niece 
has no clandestine relations with Lord Earlshope. It is 
not many days since they saw each other for the first 
time, I have no doubt that when you saw them together 
it was but a chance meeting. You would not have them 
fly from each other ? ” 

The Schoolmaster shook his head. He was begin- 
ning a serious discourse on the duties of “ professors,” 
when the Minister was forced to remind his visitor that 
as the morning on which he began his studies for 



( 


74 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


the succeeding Sabbath, and that he would be obliged 
to postpone further mention of the matter at present. 

“ We may return to it again at a more convenient 
season,” said the Schoolmaster, as he took his leave, 
“seeing the importance of one in your position, Mr. 
Cassilis, being above reproach in all your ways and ac- 
tions in this parish.” 

All that day and all that evening Coquette was very 
silent, proud, and miserable. Once only she saw the 
Whaup, but he went away from her in another direction. 
It was understood in the Manse that something serious 
in regard to the Whaup was in the wind. For more 
than an hour in the afternoon he was In his father’s 
study ; and when he came out he spent the rest of the 
day in looking over his live pets, he supported a consid- 
erable stock of animals, and visiting his favorite haunts 
in the neighborhood, just as if he were going away. 

Next morning Coquette met him at breakfast ; he 
did not speak to her. If he had even said good-morning 
she fancied she would have burst into tears and begged 
his forgiveness, and told him all that oppressed he'*. 
But again, as she saw him silent and reserved, grave, 
indeed, far beyond his wont, she put it down to pride ; 
and the dainty little woman closed her lips with an in- 
flexible air, and felt supremely wretched. 

Some little time after they had dispersed from the 
breakfast table the Whaup saw Coquette cross the court- 
yard, with her small hat and shawl on. When she per- 
ceived him, she walked rather timidly to him, and said, — 

“ I am going for a walk ; I shall be glad if you will 
come with me.” 

“ Where are you going ? ” he asked, coldly. 

■“ In the direction I went yesterday. I promised 
to go ; I do think it likely that I shall meet Lord Earls- 
hope, that is why I want you to come with me.” 

“ You promised to meet him, and now ask me to join ; 
no, thank you. I should be the third wheel of the cart.’ 

He turned and walked away. She looked after him 
A few minutes before she had resolved she would not 
go for this walk ; she would rather break that scarcely 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 75 

given promise. But when she saw him go away like 
that, her lips were again pressed proudly and determin- 
edly together, and she raised the latch of the green gate 
and passed out into the moorland road. 


CHAPTER XI. 

A MEETING ON THE MOOR. 

“ I am very miserable, ” said Coquette, struggling 
bravely to retain her tears. 

“You miserable?” cried Lord Earlshope, whom 
she had met before she had gone five hundred yards 
from the Manse. “ It is impossible ! I do not think 
you have the capacity to be miserable. But what is the 
matter ? Tell me all about it.” 

It was a dangerous moment for the exhibition of 
this kindness. She felt herself an exile from the Manse, 
and receiving comfort and sympathy from a stranger. 

She told him her story, rapidly, and in French. To 
have the burden of a foreign tongue removed was in 
itself a consolation to her, and she found inexpressible 
relief in being able to talk fully and freely about all her 
surroundings at the Manse; about her relations with a 
number of people so unlike her in temperament and 
bringing up ; about these present circumstances which 
seemed to be conspiring to goad her into some des- 
perate act. 

Lord Earlshope listened patiently and attentively, 
deeply interested, and yet inclined to smile sometimes. 

“ I should laugh at all that,” said he, when she had 
finished, because I am a man; and men are in- 
different to these delicate considerations chiefly because 
they can avoid them. If a man dislikes the people he 
is among, he has merely to go away. But a woman is 
very dependent on the temper and disposition of those 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


76 

around her ; and you especially seem almost without e 
source. You have no other relatives ? ” 

“ No, ” said Coquette. 

“ No lady friend with whom you could stay ? 

“ Many— many with whom I should like to stay,” 
said the girl, ” but they are all in France; and I have 
been sent here. Yet you must not misunderstand what 
I do say. I do not dislike my relatives. My uncle is 
a very good man, and very kind to me. My cousin, I 
do think, is more than kind to me, and ready to incur 
danger in defending my faults. The other people can- 
not be angry with me, for I have done them no harm. 
Yet everything is wrong ; I do not know how. At this 
moment I know myself very guilty in coming to see 
you ; and I should not have come but that Cousin Tom 
would not speak to me.” 

“ I think Cousin Tom has been quarrelling with you 
about me,” said Lord Earlshope. 

He spoke very quietly, and with rather an amused 
air; but Coquette was startled and a little alarmed. 
She did not wish her companion to know that he had 
anything to do with what had occurred. 

“ Now” said Lord Earlshope, “ it would be a great 
pity if I were the cause of your troubles. You see I 
have no companions here — you have not many. It 
seemed to me that we might often have a very pleasant 
chat or walk together ; but I must not be selfish. You 
must not suffer anything on my account ; so, if your 
friends at the Manse are inclined to mistake our brief 
acquaintanceship, let it cease. I do not like to see you 
as you are. You are evidently out of sorts, for you 
have never laughed this morning, yet, nor run off the 
road, nor paid the least attention to the sunlight or the 
colors of the sea out yonder. I should far prefer look- 
ing at you from a distance as an entire stranger, if I could 
see you as you usually are, fluttering about like a butter* 
fly, enjoying the warmth and colors and light around 
you, without a care, and quite unconscious how perfectly 
happy you are.” 

As Coquette heard these wortis, uttered in a cruelly 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


77 


calm and kindly ' VeieeV She .became afraid. What was 
this strange aching S£nse of disappointment that filled 
her heart ? Why was it thatf she, contemplated with dis- 
may a proposal which he had' clearly shown would 
.secure her happiness and peace? She was miserable 
before ; she was ten times more wretched now. 

He did not seem to notice any alteration in her ex- 
pression or manner. They had got to the crest of a 
hill from which the line of the coast was visible, with 
a plain of green sunlit sea beyond, and Arran lying 
like a great blue cloud on the horizon. A white haze 
of heat filled the south, and the distant Ailsa Craig was 
of a pearly gray. 

Coquette’s companion uttered an exclamation. 

“ Do you see that yacht ? ” said he, pointing to a boat 
which the distance rendered ; very small a schooner 
yacht with her two masts lying rakishly back, and her 
white sails shining in *he sun, as she cut through the 
green water with a curve of white round her prow. 

“ It is a stunning little boat,” said Coquette, simply, 
returning to the English which she had picked up from 
her father. 

Lord Earlshope did not laugh at her blunder as the 
Whaup would have laughed. He merely said, — • 

“ She has been lying at Greenock to be repainted and 
set to rights ; and I telegraphed to have the name altered 
as well. The first time you go down to Ardrossan you 
will find lying there a yacht bearing the name — 

‘ Coquette.’ ” 

“ Do you know,” said Coquette, breaking at last into 
a smile, “ everybody did use to call me that ? ” 

“ So I heard from one of your cousins the other day/’ 
said her companion. 

“ And you called the boat for me ? ” she said, with a 
look of wonder. 

“ Yes ; I took the liberty of najning if after your pet 
name, I hope you are not angry with me ? ” 

“ No,” she said, “ I am very well pleased, very much, 
it is a very kind compliment to do that, is it not ? But 
you have not told me you had a yacht.” 


7 * 


A DAUGHTER OP HE TH. 


“ It is one of my abandoned amusements. I wanted 
to surprise you, though ; and I had some wild hope of 
inveigling Mr. Cassilis, yourself, and your cousin into 
going for a day or two’s cruise up some of the lochs, 
Loch Fyne, Loch Linnhe, or some of these. It would 
have been pleasant for you, I think., as you don’t know 
anything of the West Highland lochs and mountains. 
The scenery is the most varied of any I have ever seen 
and more picturesque in the way of color. You can have 
no idea of the weirdness and wildness of the northern 
sunsets ; and of late I have been picturing you to my- 
self sitting on deck with us after the sun had gone down 
behind a line of hitt, and I have read in your face the 
wonder with which you saw the mountains "become a 
great bank of purple, with a pale-green light spreading 
up and over the sky, and spreading all over the sea, the 
stillness of the place, the calling of the wild-fowl, the 
dense and mysterious darkness of the mountains in the 
glow of cold, clear light. Dd* you think Mr. Cassilis 
would have gone ? ” 

“ I do not know,” said Coquette. 

She was becoming hard and obdurate again. He had 
spoken of this project as a thing of the past. It was no 
longer possible ; but the mere mention of it had filled 
Coquette with a wistful longing. It would have been 
pleasant, indeed, to have gone away on this dream-like 
excursion, and wandered round the lonely islands, and up 
the great stretches of sea-lochs of which her father had 
many a time spoken to her when she was a child. Never- 
theless, since her companion had chosen to give up the 
proposal, she would not ask him to reconsider his re- 
solve. They were about to become strangers : well and 
good. 

“ I must go back now,” she said. 

He looked at her with surprise. 

“ Have I offended you by telling you what I had been 
dreaming about ? After all, it was but a fancy, and I 
beg your pardon for not saying first of all that I was far 
from sure that you yourself would go, even had I per- 
suaded Mr. Cassilis.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


79 

“ No, you have not offended me,” said Coquette. 
“ Your thought was very kind. But I am sorry it is all 
over.” 

“ I see I have not brought you peace of mind yet,” he 
said gently. “ You are not Miss Cassilis, may I say that 
you a^e not Coquette ^ — this morning. What can I do 
for you ? I wish you would talk to me as if I were your 
elder brother, and tell me if there is anything in which 
I can help 'you. Shalf I go up to the Manse and hint to 
Mr. Cassilis that, that, well, to tell you the truth, I should 
be at a loss to know what to hint.” 

He smiled, but she was quite grave. 

“ There is nothing,” she said. “ They are very good 
to me, whaTmore ? Do riot let us talk of it any more. 
Let us talk.of something else. Why do you never go in 
your yacht ? ” 

“ Because I lost interest in it, as I lost interest in a 
dozen other things. Steeple-chasing was my longest- 
lived hobby, I think, for I used to be rather successful. 
Riding nine stone six, with a five-pound saddle* I have 
won more th'ari'one race.” 

“ And now you only read books and smoke, and fell 
trees in the cold weather to make you warm. What 
books ? Romances ? ” 

“ Yes ; and the more improbable the better. v 

“ You get interested ? ” 

“Yes; but not in the story. I read the story, and 
try to look at the brain of the writer all the time. Then 
you begin to wonder at the various notions. of the world 
these various heads have conceived. If I were a physi- 
ologist, I should like to read a novel, and draw a picture 
of the author gathered from the coloring and sentiments 
of his book.” 

“ That is all so very morbid,” she said. “ And in 
your poetry, too, I suppose you like the — ah, I cannot 
say what I mean.” 

“ But I understand all the same,” he said, laughing, 
and I am going to disappoint you, if you have formed 
a theory. I like old-fashioned poetry, and especially the 
lyrics of the old dramatists. Then poetry was wide as 


So 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


life itself, and included everything that could interest a 
man. A writer was not afraid to talk of everyday ex- 
periences, and was gay, or patriotic, or sarcastic, just as 
the moment suited. But don’t you think the poetry of 
the present time is only the expression of one mood, that 
it is permeated all through with sadness and religious 
melancholy ? What do- you say, Mr. Gassilis ? ” 

The abrupt question was addressed to -the Minister- 
Coquette had been walking carelessly onward, with her 
eyes bent on the ground, and had not perceived the ap- 
proach of her uncle. When she heard the sudden ter- 
mination of Lord Earlshope’s disquisition on poetry, she 
looked up with a start, and turned pale. The Minister’s 
eyes she found fixed upon her, and she dared not return 
that earnest look. 

“ I beg your pardon, Lord Earlshope,” said Mr. Cas- 
silis, looking calmly at both of them. 

“ I was victimizing your niece, whom I had the good 
fortune to meet, with a sermon on modern poetry,” said 
Lord Earlshope, lightly ; “ and as she seemed to pay no 
attention to me, I appealed to you. However, the sub- 
ject is not an enticing one, as Miss Cassilis apparently 
discovered. Which way are you 'walking? Shall we 
joiq you ? ” 

The deep-set eyes of the Minister, under the gray 
eyebrows, were closely regarding the speaker during the 
utterance of these words. Mr. Cassilis was satisfied, so 
far as Lord Earlshope was concerned. No actor could 
have been so obviously and wholly at ease, the fact being 
that the young man did not even suspect that he had 
become an object of suspicion. He had not inveigled 
the Minister’s niece into a secret interview ; on the con- 
trary, he had, mainly by chance, met a pleasant and 
pretty neighbor out for her morning walk, and why should 
he not speak to her ? 

But when the Minister turned to Coquette he found 
a different story written on her face — a story that caused 
him some concern. She appeared at once embarassed 
and distressed. She said nothing, and looked at neither 
of them ; but there was in her eyes (bent on a bit of 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH- 


81 


' heather she was pulling to pieces) an expression of con- 
i' straint and disquiet, which' was plainly visible to him, if 
1 not to Lord Earlshope. 

“ If you will relieve me from the duties of escort/' 
said the latter to Mr. Cassilis, “I think I shall bid you 
both good morning, as I have to walk over to Altyre 
Farm and back before luncheon.” 

So he parted from them, Coquette not daring to look 
up as he shook hands with her. She and. the Minister 
were left alone. 

For a minute or two they walked on in silence, and 
it seemed to Coquette that the hour of her deepest trib- 
ulation had come. So bright and happy had been the 
life of this young creature, that with her to be downcast 
was to be miserable, to be suspected was equivalent to 
being guilty. Suspicion she. could not bear, secrecy 
seemed to suffocate her ; and she had now but one de- 
spairing notion in her head — to escape and fly from this 
lonely northern place whither she had been sent, to get 
away from a combination of circumstances that appeared 
likely to overwhelm hen 

“ Uncle,” she said, “ may I go back to France ? ” 

“ My child ! ” said Mr. Cassilis, in amazement, “ what 
is the matter ? Surely you do not mean that your short 
stay with us has been disagreeable to you ? I have no- 
ticed, it is true, that you have of late been rather out of 
sorts, but judged it was but some 'temporary indisposi- 
tion. Has anything annoyed you — have you any cause 
of complaint ? ” 

“ Complaint ! ” she said ; “ when you have been so 
kind to me ? No, no complaint. But I do think I am 
not good enough for this place. I am sorry I cannot 
satisfy, although I put awary all my pictures and books, 
and the crucifix, so that no one can see. But I am sus- 
pecfed, I do hear them talk of me as dangerous. It is 
natural, it is right, perhaps, but not pleasant to me. 
Just now,” she added, desperately, “you think I did 
promise to meet Lord Earlshope, and you did come to 
take me home.” 


8 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


“ Had you not promised ? ” said the Minister, looking 
steadily and yet affectionately at her. 

For a second the girl’s lip trembled : but the next 
moment she was saying rapidly, with something of wild- 
ness in her tone and manner, — 

“ I did not promise ; no. But I did expect to see him, 
I did hope to see him when I came out ; and is it wrong ? 
Is it wrong for me to speak to a stranger, when I do see 
him kind to me, in a place where there are not many 
amiable people ? If it is wrong it is because Lord Earls- 
hope is not suspicious and hard and illjudging like the 
others. That is why they do say ill of him ; that is why 
they persuade me to think ill of him. I do not ; I will not. 
Since I left France I did meet no one so courteous, so 
friendly, as he has been. Why can I talk to him so 
easily ? He does not think me wicked because I have a 
crucifix that my mother gave me, that is why we are 
friends ; and he does not suspect me. But it is all over. 
We are not to be friends again ; we may see each other 
to-morrow; we shall not speak. Shall I tell Leesiebess ? 
perhaps it will please her ! ” 

She spoke with angry and bitter vehemence that was 
strangely out of consonance with her ordinary serenity 
of demeanor. The Minister took her hand gently in his, 
saying nothing at all and led her back to the Manse. 


CHAPTER XII. 
coquette’s conquests. 

There ensued a long period of rain, day after day 
breaking sullen' and cold, and a perpetual drizzle falling 
from a gray and cheerless sky. There were none of the 
sharp and heavy showers which a southwest gale brings, 
with dashes of blue between ; but a slow, fine, wetting 
rain that rendered everything humid and limp, and hid 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 83 

the far-off line of the sea and the mountains of Arran be- 
hind a curtain of gray mist. 

Perhaps it was the forced imprisonment caused by 
the rain which made Coquette look ill ; but, at all events, 
she grew so pale and listless that even the boys noticed 
it. All her former spirits were gone. She was no longer 
interested in their sports, and aught them no more new 
games. She kept much to her own room, and read at 
a window. She read those books which she had brought 
with her from the sunny region of the Loire ; and when 
she turned from the open page to look out upon the wet 
andmisty landscapes!! around, she came back again with 
a sigh to the volume on her knee. 

Lord Earlshope never came near the Manse ; perhaps? 
she thought he had left the country. The only communi- 
cation she had with him was on the day following their 
last meeting. She then sent him a note consisting of 
I but one line, which was, “ Please do not call your boat 
‘ Coquette.’ ” This missive she had intrusted to her 
Cousin Wattie, who delivered it, and returned with the 
answer that Lord Earlshope had merely said “ All right.’’ 
Wattie, however, broke the confidence reposed in him, 
and told his brothers that he had been sent with a 
message to Earlshope. The Whaup profited by this in- 
telligence, but punished Wattie all the same ; for on that 
night Coquette heard murmurings and complainings un- 
derneath her window. She looked out. There was some 
starlight, and she could indistinctly see a figure in white 
moving in the garden underneath that building the upper 
story of which, originally a hayloft, had been transformed 
into a dormitory for the boys. The cause of the disturb- 
ance soon became apparent. After the boys had un- 
dressed, the Whaup had wheedled or compelled Wattie 
into making a rush. to the garden for some fruit. He had 
then taken advantage of his position to pull the laeder into 
the loft, by which mean device his brother was left stand- 
ing below in his night-shirt. In vain Wattie petitioned 
to be let up to his bed. With his teeth chattering in his 
head, he entreated that at least his trousers might be 
flung down to him ; but he was not relieved from punish- 


8 4 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


ment until the Whaup had administered a severe lectur. 
to him on the shabbiness of betraying a lady’s confidence 

“ I’ll never do’t again, as sure’s I’m here ? ” said 
Wattie, who was feebly endeavoring to mitigate his suffer- 
ings by balancing himself on his toes, a feat in which he 
naturally failed. 

“ Since it won’t rain,” said the Whaup, looking spite 
fully at the clear starlit sky, “ there is no much use of 
keeping you there, so ye may hae the ladder.” 

The Whaup never spoke to Coquette about the letter, 
but it was the occasion of his prolonging the blockade 
which he had declared. He deliberately ignored her pres- 
ence. He would not complain of her keeping up what 
he imagined to be a clandestine correspondence : neither 
would he take any steps to put an end to it, He con- 
tented himself with thinking that if ever there should be 
necessity for confronting Lord Earlshope personally, 
and altering matters that way, there would be one per- 
son in the Manse ready to adventure something for the 
sake of Coquette. 

Nevertheless, it was at this time, and it was through 
the Whaup’s instrumentality, that Coquette achieved her 
first great victory in Airlie, a success which was but the 
beginning of a strange series of successes, and fraught 
with important consequences to her. It all fell about 
in this way. First, the Whaup relented. When the 
rain began, and he saw his French cousin mope and 
pine indoors, when he saw how she was growing languid 
and listless, and still strove to be cheerful and amiable 
to those around her, his reserve broke down. By insen- 
sible degrees he tried to re-establish their old relations. 
He showed her little attentions, and performed towards 
her small acts of thoughtfulness and kindness, which she 
was not slow to acknowledge. He was not impudently 
and patronizingly good to her, as he had been, there was 
a certain restraint over his approaches ; but she met 
them all with that simplicity of gratitude which the dark 
eyes and the sweet face could so readily and effectually 
express when her imperfect English failed her. And 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. £ 5 

the Whaqp no longer corrected her blunders with his 
old scornful impatience. 

One morning there was a temporary cessation of 
ain. 

“ Why don’t you go down and return the Pensioner’s 
visit ? ” said the Whaup to Coquette. 

“ If you please, I will go.” 

For the first time for many a day these two^ went 
out of the Manse together. It was like a revival of the 
old times, though the Whaup would not have believed 
you had you told him how short a space Coquette had 
actually lived in Airlie. The cold and damp wind brought 
a tinge of color to the girl’s cheeks ; the Whaup thought 
he had never seen her look so pleasant and pretty. 

While Coquette lingered in the small garden of the 
cottage, the Whaup went up to the door and told the 
Pensioner who had come to see him.. 

“ Cot pless me ! ” he hastily exclaimed, looking dow-n 
at his legs. “ Keep her in sa garden till I change my 
breeks.” 

“ What for ? ” said the Whaup. 

“ Dinna ye see sey are tartan ! ” cried Neil, in an 
excited whisper, “and sa French canna stand sa tartan.” 

“ Nonsense,” said the Whaup. “ She won’t look at 
your trousers.” 

“ It is no nonsense, but very good sense whatever,” 
said the Highlandman. “ It wass two friends o’ mine, 
and they went over to France sa very last year, and one 
o’ them, sey took bis bags and his luggage, and sey pulled 
sis way and sat way, and sey will sweer at him in French, 
but he will not know what it wass said to him, and sey 
will take many things from him, mirover, and he will 
not know why. But, said I to him, ‘ Tonald, will you 
have on your tartan plaid round your shoulders ? ’ And 
says he, ‘ I had.’ And said I to him, ‘ Did you will no ken 
how sa P'rench canna stand sa tartan ever since Water- 
loo ? ’ ” 

The Pensioner ran inside, and speedily reappeared in 
plain gray. Then he came out, and bade Coquette wel- 
come with a dignified courtesy that surprised her. 


86 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


“ You would not come to see me, so I have come to 
see you,” she said to the old man. 

“ It wasna for the likes o’ me to visit a leddy,” said 
Neil. 

He dusted a chair with his sleeve, and asked her to 
sit down. Then he put three glasses on the table, and 
brought out a black bottle. He filled one of the glasses 
and offered it to Coquette. 

“ She can’t drink whiskey ! ” said the Whaup, with 
a rude laugh. 

“It is sa rale Lagavulin,” said Neil, indignantly, “ and 
wouldna harm a flea.” 

Coquette put the glass to her lips, and then placed it 
on the table. 

“ Ye may drink it up, mem,” said Neil. “ Do ye ken 
that ye can drink sa goot whiskey until ye stagger, and 
it will do ye no harm in sa morning ? I do pelieve it is 
sa finest sing in the world’s universe, a gran’ good 
stagger as ye will go home in sa night.” 

“You have been in battle ?” said Coquette, by way 
of changing the conversation. 

“ Oh, yes, mem,” said Neil, looking desperately un- 
comfortable. “It wass — it wass — it wass in a war.” 

“ Have you been in more than one war ? ” she asked. 

“ No, mem — yes, mem,” stammered Neil, in great 
embarrassment, as he glanced to see that his tartan 
trousers were well shoved under the bed ; “ but it is no 
matter how many wars. It will pe all over pefore you 
were porn, never mind about sa wars.” 

“ I hear you were at Waterloo,” said Coquette, inno- 
cently. 

The Pensioner jumped to his feet. 

“Who wass it tellt you of Waterloo ?” said he, in 
great indignation. “ I never heard sa like. It wass a 
shame — and I would not take a hundred pounds and for- 
get mysel’ like sat. And you will be blaming us Hie- 
landers for what we did, and we did a goot teal there, 
but there wass others too. There wass English there too. 
And the French, sey fought well, as every one o’ us 
will tell ye ; and I wouldna sink too much o’t,- for maype 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 87 

it isna true sat Napoleon died on sa island. Didna he 
come pack pefore ? ” 

Having offered Coquette this grain of comfort, Neil 
hastily escaped from the subject by getting his violin 
and beginning to screw up the strings. 

“ I have been learning a lot of your Scotch airs,” said 
Coquette, “ and I have become very fond of some of them ; 
the sad ones especially. But I suppose you prefer the 
lively ones for the violin.” 

“ I can play sem all every one together,” said Neil 
proudly. “ I do not play sem well, but I know all our 
music — every one.” 

“You play a grbat deal ? ” 

u No,” said Neil, fondling his violin affectionately 

“ I do not play sa fiddle much, but I like to be aye play- 
• „ >> 

ing. 

There was a touch of pathos in the reply which did 
not escape the delicate perception of his guest. She 
looked at the old man, at his scanty gray hair and dazed 
eyes, and was glad that he had this constant companion 
to amuse and interest him. He did not like to play much, 
to make a labor of this recreation ; but he liked to have 
the tinkle of the tight strings always present to his ear. 

He played her a selection of his best airs, with many 
an apology. He chatted about the tunes, too, and told 
tales concerning them, until he was as familiar with the 
young lady as though he had known her a lifetime, and 
she was laughing at his odd stories more than she had 
laughed for many a day. At last she said, 

“ That 4 Flower of the Forest’ is a beautiful air, but 
you want it harmonised. Will you come up to the Manse 
now, and I will try to play it for you ? I have been try- 
ing it much lately.” 

So the Pensioner walked up to the Manse with them, 
and soon found himself in Coquette’s parlor. His host- 
tess remembered how she had been received, and went 
into the room adjoining for a second or two. When she 
returned there was a small bottle in her hand. 

“ This is some French brandy which my old nurse 


88 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


gave me when I left, in case I should be ill at sea ; you 
see I have not even opened the bottle.” 

The Whaup got a corkscrew and a glass, and soon 
had half a tumblerful of the brandy to offer Neil. The 
Pensioner looked at it, smelt it, said “ Deoch slainte ! ” 
and, to the horror of Coquette, gulped it down. The 
next moment his face was a mass of moving muscles, 
twisting and screwing into every expression of agony, 
while he gasped and choked, and could only say, “ Wa- 
ter ! water ! ” But when the Whaup quickly poured him 
out a glass of water, -he regarded it at arm’s-length for a 
second, and then put it away. 

“ No,” he said, with his face still screwed up to 
agony pitch, “ I can thole.” 

Coquette did not understand what had happened ; 
but when her cousin, with unbecoming frankness, ex- 
plained to her that the Pensioner would rather “ thole” 
(or suffer) the delicious torture in his throat than spoil 
it with water, she was nearly joining in the Whaup’s im- 
pudent laughter. 

But the brandy had no perceptible effect on Neil. 
He sat and listened sedately to the music she played ; 
and it was only when his enthusiasm was touched that 
he broke out with some exclamation of delight. At 
length the old man left ; the Whaup also going away to 
those exceptional studies which had been recently im- 
posed on him as a condition of his remaining at Airlie. 

Coquette sat alone at the piano. The gray day was 
darkening to the afternoon, and the rain had begun again 
its wearisome patter on the pane. She had French 
music before her, bright and laughing songs of the by- 
gone and happy time, but she could not sing them. Al- 
most unconsciously to herself, she followed the wander- 
ings of her fancy in the dreamland of that old and plain- 
tive music that she had recently discovered. Now it 
was “ Bothwell Bank,” again it was “ The Land o’ the 
Leal ” that filled the room with its sadness, until she 
came back again to “The Flowers of the Forest.” She 
sang a verse of it, merely out of caprice, to see if 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 89 

she could master the pronunciation, and just as she had 
inished, the door opened, and Leezibeth stood there. 

Coquette turned from the piano with a sigh : doubt- 
less Leezibeth had come to prefer some complaint. 

The woman came up to her and said, with the most 
painful shamefacedness clouding her look, — 

“ Will ye sing that again, miss, if it is no much trou- 
ble to ye ? Maybe ye’ll no ken that me and Andrew 
had a boy, a bit laddie that dee’d when he was but seven 
years auld — and — and he used to sing the ‘ Flowers o' 
the Forest ’ afore a’ the other songs ; and ye siifg it that 
fine that if it didna mak’ a body amaist like to greet — ” 
She never finished the sentence ; but the girl sang 
the rest of the song, and the woman stood, with her 
eyes turned to the gray evening outside, ^ilent. And 
from that day Leezibeth was the slave of Coquette. 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A HOROSCOPE. 

Events were marching on at Airlie. Leezibeth 
came to Coquette, and said, — 

“ Sir Peter and Lady Drum came back frae Edin- 
burgh last night/’ 

Coquette remained silent, and Leezibeth was aston- 
ished. Was it possible the girl had never heard of Sir 
Peter and Lady Drum ? 

“And I saw my lady this morning, and she is com- 
ing to see you this very afternoon,” said Leezibeth, 
certain she had now effected a surprise. 

“Who are they?” said Coquette. “Are they Scotch? 
I do not wish to see any more Scotch.” 

“ Ma certes ! ” said Leezibeth, firing up suddenly 
but presently she said, in a voice more gentle than Co- 
quette had ever heard her use, “Ye’ll maybe like 


9 o 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT 


the Scotch folk yet, miss, when ye hae time to under- 
stand them ; and Lady Drum is a grand woman, just an 
extraordinar’ woman ; and 1 told her a’ about ye, miss, 
and she was greatly interested, as I could see ; and I 
made bold, miss, to say that ye were a bit out o’ sorts 
the now, and if my lady would but ask ye ower to Cas- 
tle Cawmil, and let ye hae some company mair fitted to 
ye than us bodies about the Manse, it might cheer ye 
up a bit, and bring a bit color to your cheek.” 

Coquette was really surprised now. Could it be 
Leezibeth her enemy, who was speaking in this timidly 
solicitous fashion? 

“ It is very good of you ” 

“ Oh, we are no so bad as ye think us,” said Leezi- 
beth, pluckmg up courage. “And there is Scotch 
blood in yourain veins, miss, as anybody can see — for 
the way ye sing- they Scotch songs is just past be- 
lievin’ ! ” 

From Coquette’s sitting-room Leezibeth went 
straight to the Minister’s study. 

“ I hae come to speak to ye, sir, about Miss Cas- 
silis.” 

“ Dear me ! ” saicl the Minister, impatiently, u I wish 
ye would let my niece alone, Leezibeth.” 

But the Minister was no less astonished than Co- 
quette had been when Leezibeth unfolded her tale, and 
made it apparent that she had come to intercede for the 
young French girl. Leezibeth stood at the door, and 
announced it as her decision that the Minister was 
bound to see to his niece’s health and comfort more ef- 
fectually than he had done. She spoke, indeed, as if 
she dared the Minister to refuse. 

“ And Sir Peter and my lady are coming here,” con- 
tinued Leezibeth, “ for I met them as they were going 
over to Earlshope ; and my lady spoke to me about Miss 
Cassilis, and will doubtless ask her to visit her. Not 
only maun she visit Castle Cawmil, but she maun stay 
there, sir, until the change has done the lassie good.” 

“ What is the meaning of all this, Leezibeth ? ” said 
the Minister. “Has she bewitched you ? Yesterday 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


9 * 


you would have said of her, ‘ She is a Samaritan, and 
hath a devil.’ Now she has become your Benjamir, as 
it were. What will Andrew say ? ” 

“ Let the body mind his pease and his pittawties, 
and no interfere wi- me,’’ said Leezibeth, with a touch 
of vigorous contempt. 

Nevertheless Leezibeth had a conversation with her 
husband very shortly after, and was a good deal more 
cautious in her speech than was her wont. When An- 
drew came into the kitchen to have his dinner, she said, 

“ Andrew, my man, I’m thinkin’ we dinna under- 
stand they Romans. Could ye but see the gude books 
that that lassie has wi’ her, and see her read a bit o’ one 
. o’ them every night and every mornin’ — indeed, I'm 
thinkin’, Andrew, the Romans maun be a kind o’ reli- 
gious folk, after a’.” 

Andrew said “ Hm ! ” and went on with his broth, 

“I wonder,” continued Leezibeth, regarding her hus- 
band with some apprehension, “ whether there is ony 
harm in the bit pictures she has. It’s my opeenion she 
doesna worship them, as if they were a graven eemage, 
but has them, maybe, to jog her memory. Ye ken, An- 
drew, that there was a gran’ difference atween the gow- 
den calf that the children o’ Israel made and the brazen 
serpent that the Lord commanded Moses to lift up in tkc 
wilderness/’ 

“ Whatever is the woman at ? ” muttered Andrew to 
himself, over his plate. 

“ The serpent was only -a sign and a symbol, the 
foreshadowin’ o’ what was to come ; and surely Moses 
kenned what he was doin’ and didna, transgress. Now, 
Andrew, if the Romans, children o’ wrath as they are, 
have a bit cross or a crucifix only as a sort o’ remem- 
brance, there is mayhap no so muckle harm in it.” 

Andrew dropped his spoon into the broth, and sat 
bolt upright in his chair. 

“ Am I listenin’, or dreamin’ woman ? What evil 
spirit is it that has put these things into your mouth, and 
linked ye wi’ them whaus feet are set in hell ? Are ye 
clean daunert, woman, that ye should come as an apolo- 


92 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


gist for such lolk, and tread the blood o’ the covenant 
under foot ? Nae wonder they have their crucifixes and 
their pictures, for it is their judgment that they maun 
iook upon Him whom they have pierced, and mourn their 
lost condition. And it is this lassie that has done it a’, 
as I said frae the first. 'Twas a sad day for us that she 
came to Airlie ; the Manse has never been itseP since 
then. Yet never did I think to hear such words from a 
woman well brought up as ye have been ; and it fears 
me to think what will be the end o’t.” 

“ Bless me ! ” saicf Leezibeth, testily, “ I only asked 
for your opeenion.” 

“ And my opeenion is.” said Andrew, “ that the time 
Is coming when ye will see this woman in her true colors, 
and she will no longer be a snare to the feet o’ them that 
would walk decently and uprightly. Ye hae been led 
awa’ by the tempter, Leezibeth, and the fair things o-’the 
world hae been set before ye, and the kingdoms thereof, 
and your eyes are blinded. But there will come a day, 
and that soon, when this Manse will see a change, and 
her that has entered it will be driven forth to seek another 
people. Dinna be beguiled in the meantime, Leezibeth. 
The end is cornin’, andTier pictures and her crucifixes 
will not save her then.” 

“ What do you mean, Andrew ? ” said his wife, who 
was nearly in tears. “ I am sure the lassie" has done no 
wrong. I declare my heart feels for her when I see her 
• sittin’ by the window, a’ by herself, looking out at nae- 
thing, and a fairwecht o’ weariness and patience on her 
face. If she had a mother, now, to look after her and 
; speak to her ” 

“ And how long is it,” said Andrew, “ since ye hae 
’men this interest in her ? How did she cast her wiles 
' ower ye ? ” 

Leezibeth did not answer. She was thinking of the 
■ vague and dreadful future which Andrew had been proph- 
esying. 

“ Let her alone, leave her to herseP,” said Andrew. 
“ I warn ye against this woman, Leezibeth, as I hae 
warned the Minister, though he would take nae he^l 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


93 


:and leaves her wi’ a’ her idolatrous implements free to 
•work destruction in the midst o’ a decent and God-fear- 
ing house. Yet in time this will be changed, and we 
will have to cast out the serpent. ‘ I will hedge up thy 
way with thorns, and make a wall, that she sha&not find 
her paths. And she shall follow after her lovers, but she 
shall not overtake them ; and she shall seek, them, but 
shall not find them.’ ” 

“ Who is that you are talking about ? Is it my 
cousin ? ” said the Whaup, haughtily, as he suddenly 
stood before them. He had come into the kitchen hur- 
riedly, in order to get some glue for a “ dragon ” which 
he was making for a younger brother, and had heard the 
latter end of Andrew’s bitter forecast. 

As for Leezibeth she had turned aside in deep dis- 
tress. Her newly awakened sympathy for the girl was 
rudely troubled by those sinister anticipations of her 
husband, and she did not know what to think of them, 
but Andrew, who had for the moment forgotten his broth, 
was looking up, when he saw the Whaup suddenly 
appear. The old man’s face, which was severe enough 
as he spoke, assumed a deep frown on seeing his enemy. 
He was evidently annoyed at being “ caught,” and yet 
determined to brave it out. 

“ Whj% you canna eat your dinner without stopping 
to talk spite and scandal, ” said the Whaup, with a curl 
of his lip. “ Canna you leave that to women ? And a pretty 
Daniel you are, wi’ your prophecies and your judgments 
and your warnings ? But if you will be a Daniel, by jingo ! 
I’ll make this house worse to you than any den of lions 
ever ye were in in your life ! ” 

The Whaup went out and summoned a secret conclave, 
of his brothers. The Vehmgericht met in the hayloft. 


94 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH 


CHAPTER XIV. 

SIR PETER AND LADY DRUM. 

Coquette, sitting quietly in the general parlor, the 
Minister being busy with his reading, heard voices in the 
hall, and one of them startled her. Indeed she suddenly 
put her hand to her heart, having felt a quick flutter, as 
of pain, there, and a tinge of color came to her pale face. 
The next moment Leezibeth announced Sir Peter and 
Lady Drum, and Lord Earlshope ; and these three en- 
tered the room. 

Sir Peter was a little, stout, rosy-cheeked, and fair- 
haired man, who wore a suit of light gray, and had a big 
diamond ring on his finger. There was a pleasant ex- 
pression in his face, a look of gayety in his eyes, and 
his laugh, which was heard rather too often, passed be- 
yond all the bounds of decorum in its long shrill peals. 
He laughed as he went briskly forward to shake hands 
with the Minister ; he laughed and made a feeble joke 
when he was introduced to Coquette ; he laughed and 
made another feeble joke when he led forward his wife to 
young girl. 

Coquette found herself confronted by a most strik- 
ing-looking woman, one who might have sat for a picture 
of a grande dame of the last generation. Lady Drum 
was a tail, elderly, upright person, with a massive face, 
which was yet kindly in the severity of its features, and 
with a fine head of gray hair, elaborately arranged. Lady 
Drum was widely known in the neighborhood for her in- 
flexible judgments on people's conduct, her generous but 
scrupulously calculated aid to all who were in need, 
and her skill in medicine, which she loved to practice ; 
and it was a popular mystery how this stately and impos- 
ing lady could have married the gay little gentleman who 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


95 


was now her husband. Yet they agreed remarkably 
well, and seemed to have a mutual esteem for each other. 
She bore with great equanimity his perpetual jokes, his 
ceaseless and rambling talk, and loud laughter ; while he 
was fond of addressing her as his “ jewel, ” declaring that 
she had saved his life twenty times with her physic. Of 
all the people in the country the Drums were the only 
people whom Lord Earlshope was ever known to visit ; 
and his regard and liking for the grave and noble-looking 
lady of Castle Cawmil had even led him to permit him- 
self to be dosed and doctored upon occasions. Some- 
times they corresponded ; and the contents of Lady 
Drum’s letters chiefly consisted in motherly advice about 
the use of flannel in spring-time, and the great virtues of 
some new herb she had discovered. As for Sir Peter, 
Lord Earlshope seldom saw him when he visited Castle 
Cawmil. Sir Peter was anywhere, everywhere, but in 
his own house. He flitted about the country, enjoying 
himself wherever he went, for the number of his friends 
was legion ; while Lady Drum attended to her poultry- 
yard and her patients at home, 

Coquette found fixed upon her a pair of severe and 
scrutinizing eyes ; but there was something in the appear- 
ance of the tall grayhaired woman which she could not 
help admiring and even liking. When she spoke, which 
she did in a grave and deliberate fashion, with a consider- 
ably marked Scotch accent, her voice had all the soft- 
ness which her features lacked. 

“ I hope you will find Airlie a pleasant place, ” said 
Lady Drum, still retaining Coquette’s hand. 

'‘Dull — dull — dull,” said Sir Peter, looking out of 
the window and humming to himself. “ Very dull, veiy 
dull— very dull. Ha, ha ! Hm, hm ! Ha, ha ! ” 

“And we shall hope to see you often at Castle 
Cawmil, ” said Lady Drum. 

“ I thank you, ” said Coquette, simply, but making 
no promise. 

“ Pleasanter for you than for her, ” said Sir Peter, 
gayly, “ My dear young lady, if you come to Cas'cie 
Cawmil, we shall all be very grateful; but you mustn’t 


9 6 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


expect to have much amusement, you know. Lectures 
on typhus — lectures on typhus, you know ; pills, draughts, 
blisters, hm, hm ! ha, ha ! ha, ha ! ” 

Lady Drum paid no attention to the small playful- 
nesses of her husband, but turned to the Minister. 

“Your worthy housekeeper has been telling me that 
your niece is very much in want of a change. I can 
see it. The wet weather has shut her up. She wants 
to be let out into the air, with companions and amuse- 
ment ; and I would even recommend a little tansy, or, 
perhaps gentian root. If she were with me for a week 
or two I might try the Caribbean cinchona, which has 
proved an excellent tonic within my own experience ; 
but as for horse-chestnut bark, which some prefer to 
use, I do not hold wi’ that in any case. Lord Earls- 
hope will tell ye, Mr Cassilis, that the Caribbean cin- 
chona ” 

“ Did . me a world of good,” said Lord Earlshope. 
“ Indeed, I was quite ashamed to get well so rapidly, 
and deprive my amiable physician of the chance of 
watching the effects of her cure. In fact, I got so ridic- 
ulously well that I had no occasion to drink any of the 
coltsfoot wine that Lady Drum was good enough to 
send me. Shall I transfer it to you, Miss Cassilis, when 
you become one of Lady Drum’s patients ? ” 

- “ I will take it, if it is nice,” said Coquette. 

Lady Drum did not like this way of treating the 
subject, especially as her husband was moving about the 
room from place to place, joking about everybody all 
around in a somewhat impudent way, and humming a 
series of reflections on physic generally, which inter- 
fered with the dignity of the situation. 

“ Fine thing, physic, grand thing, physic, hm ! hm ! 
old woman comes and gets her physic, and- sixpence, 
ha, ha! drinks the sixpence and flings away the physic, 
with a ‘ God bless all doctors, if possible/ Capital gar- 
den that of yours, Mr. Cassilis, capital ! too much like'a 
wilderness, perhaps. Got the old ponies in ' the stables 
yet, old Bess with the swallow tail ? Remember how 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


97 

the Hielandman tho.ught the flicht o’ a swallow was like 
a squint lum ? ” 

“ What is that ? ” said Lord Earlshope, 

“Untranslatable, untranslatable,” carolled Sir Peter 
“ ‘ Bekass it wass a crookit flue.’ More untranslatable 
still, isn’t it ? We must be going, rriy lady.” 

But my lady had got into a very confidential chat 
with Coquette, and had even aired a few French phrases, 
to show that she had been used to polite accomplish- 
ments in her youth. She had been to Paris, also ; had 
seen the Place de la Bastille ; and considered herself 
profound in the history of the capital. Their talk, 
nevertheless, was chiefly of Airlie, and of Coquette’s ex- 
periences there. 

“ I did like the place better when I came here,” said 
the girl. “ Much better. Yet, it is pretty, you know, 
when there is sun, and it is not cold. It is always the 
same thing at Airlie, the same place, the same people, 
the same things to do each day. That is tiresome when 
one is indoors in the rain, when one is out in good days 
there is variety. If you will let me visit you, I shall be 
joyous, joyful — no, I mean I shall be glad visitoty uo 
and see you. And will you come to Airlie often ? I 
have no lady friend in this country, you know, only my 
uncle and the boys, and if you will be pleased to come 
and see me, it will be a great pleasure to me.” 

“ But I am an old woman,” said Lady Drum. “ I 
should be a poor companion for you. 

“ But I have always lived with old people,” said 
Coquett-e, somewhat too bluntly. “ I do like old people 
better than young.” 

Lady Drum was puzzled. Why did this young crea- 
ture talk so sadly, and show none of the liveliness and 
hope natural to her age ? Surely, with her graceful 
and well-formed figure, her clear dark eyes, and the 
healthy red of her lips that were obviously meant to 
laugh, she ought to have plenty of spirit and life ? Lady 
Drum had never seen the true Coquette ; the Coquette 
to whom every day was a holiday, and every incident in 
it a joyous experience; but she half divined that the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


4 * 

pale, pretty, dark-eyed girl who sat beside her, and who 
had an ease of manner which was the perfection of sim- 
plicity, was not strung up to her natural pitch of health 
and enjoyment. Lady Drum had never heard Coquette 
laugh in the open air, or sing to herself in the garden ; 
but she had a suspicion that the beauty of the girl's 
face was paler than it ought to be. 

“ Quassia I ”• said Lady Drum, suddenly, and Co- 
quette started ; but presently her elderly friend said, 
“ No. We must try something else first. Castle Caw- 
mil would be tiresome just now, with an old woman like 
me in it. By and by, my lassie, you must come and see 
me when I have got together some young folks ; and 
we shall have half the gentlemen in Ayrshire fighting 
for the first quadrille/' 

“Is there dancing at your house ? " said Coquette, 
with interest. 

“ Dancing ! Yes, as much dancing as young lassocks 
like you should have, who will not be persuaded to take 
any other sort o’ exercise." 

“ I was told it was evil here," said Coquette, remem- 
bering certain of Leezibetbs orations. 

“ Evil ! evil 1 ” said Lady Drum. “If there was 
much of evil in it, it wouldna set its foot within my doors. 
But then, ye see, Miss Cassilis, this is a minister s house 
and a minister must be discreet, no to give offence, as it 
were, Doubtless your uncle, being a reasonable man, 
knows that' what was used as a pairt of the worship of 
the Lord may surely be used without harm as an inno- 
cent and usefh recreation ; but he has to mind a lot o’ 
strict and suspicious bodies, that see the image of Satan 
himsel’ whene’er they look beyond the rim o' their own 
porridge-pot.” 

“ Now, my lady/’ cried St. Peter, “ sorry to interrupt 
your chat with Mr. Cassilis’s charming niece ; but I 
know she will thank me for getting her away from your 
tansy and coltsfoot wine. Come along, come along, 
come along, ha, ha ! hm, hm ! ha, ha ! " 

“ Not before I have arranged this little matter," said 
Lady Drum, with dignity, as she turned to Lord Earls- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


99 


hope, who had been conversing with the Minister. 
u Lord Earlshope, do ye mind that you pressed me to 
make use o’ your yacht when occasion suited ? ” 

“ Certainly I do,' ; said Lord Earlshope. “ She is quite 
at your service, always : and just at present she is in 
capital cruising order, with all the men on board. Do 
you propose to take Miss Cassilis for a run up some of 
the lochs ? ” 

“ Indeed, it was the very thing I was thinking of, ’ 
said Lady Drum. 

“ Then you have only to drive to Ardrossan any day 
you choose, and give Maxwell his sailing orders. He is 
a steady old fellow, and will take every care of you.” 

Coquette listened mutely, with her eyes fixed on the 
ground. Lord Earlshope then proposed that she and 
Lady Drum should go by themselves: she did not think 
it very civil. 

“ I had some notion of asking Mr. Cassilis to form 
a party and go for a short cruise, hut I dismissed it as 
chimerical. Perhaps you will be more successful if you 
try.” 

“ Now tell me,” said Lady Drum, with a business- 
like air, “ how many you can take on board.” 

“Why, half the population of Airlie, or thereabouts, 
But there is one very grand state-room, which you ladies 
could share between you ; and as for your gentlemen 
friends, you might ask as many as had been accustomed 
to the exigencies of yachts, myself among the number, I 
hope. As for Sir Peter — — ” 

“ No, no, no ! ” cried Sir Peter, gaily. “ No yachting 
for me, sleeping in a hole, washing out of a tea-cup, wet 
to the skin all day, ha, ha! hm, hm»! ha, ha! No yacht- 
ing for me, off to Peebles on Tuesday, then back to Ed- 
inburgh the week after ; my lady may go if she likes.” 

“ Mr. Cassilis, may we reckon on you ? ” said Lady 
Drum, severely ignoring her husband’s volatility. “Your 
niece demands some change of the kind , and I have 
entered into a contract long ago with Lord Earlshope 
about the yacht.” 

“ You need not be frightened by what Sir Peter 


IOO 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


says,” observed Lord Earlshope, with a laugh. “ On 
board a sixty-ton yacht you are not put to such dreadful 
inconveniences, indeed, you may be as much at home in 
the ‘ Caroline ’ as in a steamer. Shall I add my entreat- 
ies to those of Lady Drum ? If you could get away from 
your duties for a week or two, it would be a pleasant 
holiday at this season ; and, if you like, I will go with 
you for a day or two, to see you all comfortably settled.” 

There was positively a blush on the pale gray face 
of the Minister. The notion of taking a holiday for the 
mere purpose of pleasure was quite startling to him, 
had, in fact, something dangerous about it. Had the 
proposal, indeed, not been made in the first instance by 
Lady Drum, whose decision as to matters of propriety 
was law throughout the district, he would not even have 
considered it for a moment. 

“ I cannot give an answer out of hand,’' he said, 
gravely, and yet with some hesitation. “ Doubtless it 
is a tempting and a kind offer ; but there are other obli- 
gations binding on us than our own wishes.” 

“ Now Mr. Cassilis,” said Lady Drum, “have you 
not mentioned to me that you greatly desired some op- 
portunity should occur to permit you to give young Mr. 
M’Alister your pulpit for the day, an honor that he has 
fairly set his heart on ? ” 

“ But I should like to be present to witness his trial,” 
said the Minister, fighting against himself. 

“Ye may trust him — ye mayVust him,” said Lady 
Drum, decisively., “ He is as safe as an old horse wi 
blinders on. No fear o’ him alarmin’ the congregation 
wi’ new doctrine, he hasna spunk enough to be danger- 
ous.’ ’ # 

This somewhat doubtful testimony to the intellectual 
“ safety ” of the young man carried some weight, evidently, 
and Mr. Cassilis then turned to his niece. 

“ Catherine,” said he, solemnly, “you have heard Lady 
Drum’s proposal, would it please you to go ? ” 

“Oh, very much,” said Coquette, “if — if my cousin 
could also, go.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


The Minister stared ; how had the 'Whaup come to 
be of such consequence ? 

“ Do you mean my friend Tom? ” said Lord Earls- 
hope. “ Why, of course he can go. There is nothing 
to hinder him.” 

Coquette was very grateful, but said nothing. There 
was a brighter look on her face, however, than had been 
there for many a day. The Minister said he would con- 
| sider the matter ; and, if he saw that his duties to his 
parishioners would not suffer, he hoped to be able to 
take his niece on this voyage of health. 

When the visitors had gone, Coquette went outside 
to look for the Whaup. She found him in the garden ; in- 
, dined to be more reserved than ever on account of this 
appearance of Lord Earlshope at the Manse. 

“ Tom,” she said, “ I do wish to speak to you, to ask 
why. you avoid me, when you were my good companion 
for a long time. Why should we quarrel ?” 

“ Quarrel ? ” said the Whaup, as if he laughed at the 
idea of his bothering himself to quarrel with anybody, 
“ I haven’t quarrelled ; I haven’t time to quarrel. But I 
suppose you are come to be penitent and all that ; and 
probably you will cry. I don’t like to see you cry, so I’ll 
make friends at once, if you like.” 

u Is that how you do make friends in Scotland ? ” 
said Coquette, with a laugh in her eyes, “standing a 
yard off, looking fierce, and speaking harsh.” 

44 Oh, I will kiss you, if you like.” said the Whaup, 
bluntly, and he advanced for that purpose. 

“ No,” said Coquette, with the least change of man- 
ner ; and yet that delicate alteration in her tone and 
look protected her as though with a wall of iron. “ I 
did not ask you. But I have something to ask of very 
much importance, oh ! such great importance ! And I 
wish you to be kind as you once were, but I am afraid 
on this day. It is too cold, too dull. On a clear day you 
would say, yes.” 

“ Don’t talk so much, but tell me what it is,” said the 
Whaup. He was warding off, rudely, the insidious 
attacks of his too pretty cousin. 


102 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


“ It is proposed we all go with Lord Earlshope’s 
yacht on a long voyage around the Islands, your papa 
and Lady Drum, and me, too ; and it depends if you will 
go that I will go.” 

“ I go ! ” said the Whaup, with a burst of laughter. 
“ In Lord Earlshope’s yacht ! You must be mad ! ” 

“ If you do not go, I will not go,” said Coquette, 
simply. 

“Perhaps it is better you shouldn’t go,” said the 
Whaup. 

“ Perhaps it is,” said Coquette, turning away towards 
the house. 

The Whaup looked after her for a moment, then he 
followed her. 

“ Look here, what do you want to go for ? ” he asked. 

“I thought it would be pleasurable, the amusement, 
the going away from this place a few days, the whole of us 
together. But I am not anxious, I can stay at home.” 

“ Why can’t you go with outme ” said he. 

“ I wanted you for a companion,” said Coquette, look- 
ing down. “ There will be nobody but your papa and 
Lady Drum, Lord Earlshope only comes for a day or 
two, to see us off.” 

He looked at her downcast face in a scrutinizing 
way ; he was not sure about her. 

“You know, I don’t believe in you as I did at one 
time. People who deceive you once will deceive you 
again,” he said. 

She looked up with an angry glance, and bitter tears 
sprang to her eyes. 

“ How can you say that ? ** she said, indignantly. 
“You are too hard, you have no mercy, you expect every 
one to be as rude as yourself. If you do not believe me, 
it is no matter to me ; I can believe myself, that is 
enough.” % 

With these words, she was again turning proudly 
away, when he caught her by the hand, and stopped 
her. 

“You are a very peculiar young woman,” he said, 
“You are always firing off somehow or other, always 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


10 3 

very delighted or else very miserable. Why don’t you 
take things coolly, as I do ? I don’t say you’re very bad 
because you went in for little trifling useless bits of 
deceit. I suppose every woman does that, it’s their 
nature, and it’s no use grumbling. If you had any sense, 
you’d dry your eyes, get something on your head, and 
come and see us dig up a bee’s nest that I have found.” 

“ Yes, I will do that,” she said; adding, timidly, 
“ and about the yacht, I am not to go ? ” 

He looked in her eyes just then, and, oddly enough, 
that glance somehow made him aware that he was hold- 
ing her hand, a little white hand, that had a couple of 
tiny rings on one of the fingers. He dropped the hand 
at once, was uncomfortable and shy for a moment, and 
then said, desperately. “ Yes, I will go.” 

There was a flush of color and gladness passed over 
the pale face, and she lifted his hand suddenly and 
pressed it to her lips. Then she ran into the house, 
and presently reappeared with her hat and some loose 
white thing that she hurriedly flung around her neck. 
Her eyes were so bright and joyous that the Whaup 
looked at her with amazement. 

In a secret corner the Whaup found his brothers, 
armed with large boughs. All set out for the moor 
where the bees’ nest had been discovered ; and the 
Whaup revealed, to Coquette that his object in storming 
the nest was not merely to secure the little underground 
nuts of honey. A deed of vengeance had to be accom- 
plished, and the captured bees were to aid in the task. 

Now Sir Peter and Lady Drum had driven back to 
Earlshope for luncheon, and were returning along the 
moorland road, their host accompanying them. On their 
way they saw in the distance a small procession of 
figures on the moor, carrying branches of trees. 

“ Why, yonder is Coquette running and laughing,” 
said Lord Earlshope. 

“ Running and laughing?” said Lady Drum. “ Has 
that dark-eyed little witch been cheating me ? ” 


104 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A DANGEROUS ADVENTURE. 

" What is the matter with you ? ” said the Whaup 
to Coquette. “ For a few minutes you are alive, and in 
the world ; and the next minute you are looking away • 
over there at the sea, as if you could look through the 
Arran hills, and see something miles and miles away 
on the other side.” 

Coquette started, and recalled herself ; but there 
was no tinge of embarrassment on the pale, clear, foreign- 
looking face. She said, — 

“ I was thinking whether your papa would let us all 
go with Lady Drum.” 

“Then he has not promised to go ?” said the Whaup, 
sharply. 

The dark eyes of Coquette began to look afraid. 

“ It is a strange thing,” said the Whaup, “ that wo- 5 
men will not tell you all the truth at once. They must 
keep back things, and make mysteries, and try to de - 1 
ceive you. Why didn’t you say to me, ‘There is a 
talk of our going a trip in Earlshope’s yacht. Will you 
come, if we are all allowed to go?’ instead of hinting 
that you were all fixed on going, and I might as well ; 
join you ? Well, there, I am not going to say another I 
word. You can’t help it. You are only a woman/ 

“ And you are only a boy,” she said, looking up to 1 
the tall, handsome lad beside her, “ very kind, and very 1 
generous, and very stupid.” 

“ I am older than you, at least/ said the Whaup, * 
who did not like to be called a boy. “ And, if it was \ 
any use, I’d give you the advice to drop these little 
tricks, and be honest with one.” 

“If my honesty were equal with your rudeness, I 


A DAUGHTER OF IIE TIT. 


I0 5 

should please you,” said Coquette, with a smile. She 
was disinclined, just then to take umbrage. 

“It will be a bold thing for my father to go away 
anywhere in the company of Lord Earlshope,” observed 
; the Whaup. “It will be only hi-s regard for your 
health which will force him.” 

“ Why? ” said Coquette, with a touch of asperity. 

“ Well, you know the reputation he has in the parish,” 
remarked the Whaup coolly. “ Perhaps everybody is 
wrong ; but, -at all events, Earlshope gives them every 
reason to think ill o-f him. He never comes to church ; 
he walks about on Sundays with his dogs; or else he 
reads novels and smokes cigars. If I go with you, it is 
i not to be friends with him ; it is to protect you. Do you 
| know, either he is mad or one of these novels has taken 
| his head ; for he has got a place built at the end of the 
grounds like a wizard’s cave, with trickling water run- 
ll ning over a lot of rocks, and he sits there at night to 
read, and in the rocks he has blue lights, that make the 
| place look as if it was haunted.” 

“That is stuff and humbug,” said Coquette. 

“ What did you say ? ” 

I “ I do mean it is nonsense, if that is better. It is an 
i old woman’s story of the village, it is a fable, it is fool- 
! ish,” 

“ Very well, very well,” said the Whaup. “ But if 
you have the -courage to slip out of the house to-night 
when it is dark, and run all the way there, I will take 
you in by a way that I know, and show you the place.” 

“ Suppose he were there ? ” said Coquette. 

“No fear. The nights are getting too cold. Will 
you go ? ” 

“ Perhaps,” said Coquette* 

By this time they had arrived at the spot on the moor 
where the Whaup had discovered the bees’ nest. He 
pointed out to his companion a small hole in a piece of 
mossy ground which was uncovered by the heather; and 
as she looked at it, a large humblebee came crawling out, 
paused for a second, and then flew away with a lew buz- 


J0 6 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

zing noise into the distance. The Whaup threw off his 
jacket, and took his spade in hand. 

“ Here,” said he to Coquette, “protect yourself w’ f h 
this branch. Knock them down when they come near 
you.” 

“ Why ? ” she said. “ They will no£ harm me, I am 
not harming them,” 

“ That may be the case wi’ bees in France,” ouserved 
the Whaup, with a sneer, “ where they’ve better man- 
ners; but ye’ll find Scotch bees have differpnt habits.” 

So he ordered one of the boys to stand by Coquette 
and beat down any bees that might come her way ; 
threatening him with pains and penalties dire if one 
should touch her. Then he struck the spade into the 
ground near the entrance to the nest, and raised a large 
“divot.” The channel to the subterranean caves was 
now laid bare, and one or two bees that had been coming 
jp were seen extricating themselves from the loose earth. 
These Dougal laid straightway hold of, by means of his 
handkerchief, and popped them into a large paper bag 
which he held. 

“ What for you put them in a bag ? ” said Coquette ; 
at which all the boys burst out laughing. But they did 
not tell her the secret. 

The excitement of this work of destruction now be- 
gan. Out came the bees in dozens, buzzing up from the 
ruddy earth only to be struck down by great branches of 
alder borne by the boys ; while the intrepid Dougal, with 
his face and hands quite unguarded, stood over the hole, 
and picked up whichever of them looked only stunned. 
It was a dangerous occupation ; for those inside the bag, 
which had partially recovered, began to hum their dis- 
content, and tried to escape by the small opening which 
admitted their companions in . misfortune. Sometimes, 
indeed, the other boys assisted, although it was no easy 
matter to beat back the winged host that flew round and 
round their ears. 

Suddenly Wattie uttered a loud shriek, and set off 
running as hard as he could. His companions perceived 
to their dismay that about twenty or thirty bees had 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


107 


clustered around his head, and were now following him, 
and hovering over him as he ran. 

“ He’s got the queen bee on his bonnet,” said the 
Whaup, “ Throw down your bonnet — -ye idiot ! throw 
down your bonnet ! ” 

Wattie was still within hearing, and had sufficient 
nerve left him to do as he was bid. He snatched at his 
cap, pitched it on the heather, and again made off ; but 
it was soon apparent that he was out of danger. The 
bees had lit upon the cap, and from a safe distance he 
stood and regarded it with rather a rueful countenance. 

The issue of bees had ceased. The boys laid down 
their branches, and began to dig out with their fingers, 
from among the red and sandy earth, the small brown 
combs of honey, which were speedily transferred, sand 
and all, to their mouths. The Whaup, of course, would 
not condescend to such vulgar -and childish practices ; 
but he produced a penknife, and extracted some honey 
from one of the combs, which Coquette was pleased to 
taste. 

“ What for you have bees in the bag ? ” said Co- 
quette, as they prepared to go home — a simultaneous 
charge of branches having cleared Watties cap. 

“ I told you,” said the Whaup, “ there was a deed 
of vengeance to be done. In the stable there is a bag 
of corn, which Andrew opens twice a day to get some 
for the pony. We are going to put the bees in the bag 
I suppose there’s near a hundred of them. When 
Andrew plunges his hand into the bag ” 

“ Oh you wicked boy ! ” cried Coquette. 

“ You are the cause of it,” said the Whaup. 

« l ?” 

“ I heard him calling ye all sorts o’ name out of the 
Bible, Satan quoting Scripture, ye know, and I have 
warned him before ; and now he’ll get it.” 

“ The bees, they will kill him,” said Coquette. 

“ So much the better,” retorted the Whaup; “ he 
is a nuisance.” 

“ But what is that on your hand , that is a sting, is 


I0 3 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

it not ? ” she said, looking at a considerable swelling 
which was visible on the Whaup’ s forefinger. 

“ Oh, one is nothing,” he said, carelessly, sting. 
“ unless it’s a wasp or a hornet. Did you ever burn out 
a nest of hornets ? If you haven’t, don’t try it.” 

“ No,” said Coquette, simply, “ I’ m not such a 
gowk.” 

“ Well, that i-s pretty English ! ” observed the Whaup, 
with a stare. 

“ Isn’t it right? I did hear you say it yesterday,” 
remarked Coquette, without any notion that she was 
turning the tables on her critic. 

So they drew near home again, and the Whaup fan- 
cied a shade came over his cotnpanion’s face as they ap- 
proached the Manse. Perhaps it was the dull, gray day 
which made the old-fashioned little place look dull and 
solitary, that made the moor look unusually bleak, and 
the long stretch of country sombre and sad. 

“ I hope you are not tired,” said the Whaup. 

“ Tired ? No,” she said, somewhat languidly. “Do 
you think your papa will take us away from here for a 
little while? ” 4 

“ How you harp on that yacht ?” said the Whaup, 
good-naturedly. “ I must go and persuade my father 
on your behalf, I think.” 

“ Will you do that ? ” she said, eagerly, 

“ Yes,” he said, “ and just now. Isn’t he there in 
the garden ? I hear him talking. Oh, it is the School- 
master, who is delivering a lecture. Now, I will wager 
he is talking about you.” 

. “ About me ? ” 

“ Yes ! Don’t you know you are a dangerous 
character to the whole village ? ” 

“ I should like to know what he says about me,” 
said Coquette, proudly, advancing towards the wall which 
surrounded the garden. 

“ But not that way,” said the Whaup, taking her 
hand and leading her off. “ If you wish to know, you 
mustn’t hide and listen, although I suppose that is a* 
woman’s way. You go into the Manse; I will go into 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


I09 

the garden, and bring you word what the new ground 
of complaint is.” 

Leaving Coquette, therefore, the Whaup went around 
the house, and boldly walked up to the place where 
Mr. Gillespie and the Minister stood together. 

“ It is Earlshope who is catching it this time,” said 
the Whaup to himself, overhearing the name. 

His father looked with some surprise on the ap- 
proach of his eldest son, who had -rather a pugnacious 
look on his face, by the way, but the Schoolmaster was 
too intent upon his choice phrases to heed. 

. . . “ than which, sir, nothing could be more deplorable, 
or mortifying, as I may say,” observed Mr, Gillespie. 
“ But I would give every man the due of his actions ; 
for, although works are not in themselves saving, they 
may be a sign, or, as some would term it, a symptom, 
of the presence o’ grace, even among the Gentiles who 
know not the law, yet do the things that are written or 
inscribed in the law.” 

“ Yes, yes, Mr, Gillespie ! ” said the Minister, with 
an impatient twitch at his bunch of seals ; “ but ye sai-d 
ye had come to tell me ” 

“ Yes, sir, to inform ye of a circumstance which 
deserves, or is entitled to, some remark. I have been 
made the means, or, I may say, the humble instrument, 
of conveying to the people of this parish no less a sum 
than one hundred pounds sterling, to be expended, sir, as 
those who have authority among us may direct, for the 
good, or benefit, of such as are — such as are — su£h as are, 
in fact, here. Ware it, or, as I ought to say, expend it, as 
we best may on the educational or worldly wants of the 
parish, it is all the same ; and while I would observe, 
sir, that the money cannot heighten in value the ser- 
vices which you give, or rather render to this parish, it 
being your duty, as I may express it, to expound the 
prophecies and dig up spiritual gold and silver for them 
that are of Zion, I would take your advice wi’ all humil- 
ity as to how this sum is to be granted to, or bestowed 
upon, the parish.” 

Mr. Gillespie paused, with the air of a man who had 


no 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


been up to the occasion. He raised his large spectacles 
towards the Minister’s face, and proudly awaited the 
reply. 

“ Where got ye this money ? ” said the Minister. 

‘‘ Sir, from Lord Earlshope, some three days ago, 
with a letter dated some place in the north, in which his 
Lordship was pleased to say that it was but a whim of his. 
A noble and a praiseworthy whim, said I to Mrs. Gilles- 
pie, on receiving the money ; and as I am one, Mr. Cassilis 
that would argue from facts rather than from idle hear- 
say, or, as I might call it rumor, I am bold to observe 
that there are in this very parish those who would look 
back at his Lordship, and yet no bestow a bawbee on 
the education o’ the poor. I wouldna, sir, cast, or, in 
other words, fling, the first stone ; and if some would do 
as they see Lord Earlshope do, I am thinking, sir, they 
would not — they would not do — as — as, in fact, they do 
do” 

Feeling- that his eloquence was beginning to halt, the 
Schoolmaster pulled out the identical letter and check 
which had effected so extraordinary a change in his sen 
timents towards the owner cf Earlshope. These he 
handed to Mr. Cassilis, who took them and scanned 
them with equal surprise and pleasure. The Minister 
even hinted that since his Lordship was so well-disposed 
to the parish, and apparently inclined to make up for 
past forgetfulness, it would be unbecoming of the parish 
not to meet his advances in a similar friendly spirit. 

“ Precisely and exactly as I observed to Mrs. Gilles- 
pie this morning, sir, not ten minutes, nay, when I recol- 
lect, not above five minutes, indeed, I am sure three 
minutes could not have elapsed, after the reading of the 
letter, or communication I might call it, seeing what it 
holds. And Mrs. Gillespie, sir, made an observation, 
couched in homely phrase, yet pertaining, or, as I might 
say, bearing upon this point. She remarked that the 
test of a man’s fair words was when he put his hand in 
his pocket.” 

“ It is sometimes so,” said the Minister ; adding, with 
a sly glance at the Schoolmaster, “perhaps, after all Mr. 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. Ul 

Gillespie, when my parishioners hear of Lord Earlshope’s 
generosity; they will not wonder at my receiving him at 
the Manse, nor yet will they object to his speaking to 
my niece.” 

The Schoolmaster looked rather uncomfortable ; and 
the Whaup, behind his back, performed some derisive 
and delighted antics of a vulgar nature. 

“I maun e’en take a man as I find him, Mr. Cassi- 
lis,” said the Schoolmaster, forgetting his English in the 
warmth of his self-defence. “ If he alters for the better, 
what for should I stick to my old opeenion, like a flea to 
the wa’ ? ” 

“ Certainly, certainly,” said the Minister ; “ but 
sometimes it is our judgment that is mistaken in the 
first case, and it behooves us to be cautious and charit- 
able.” 

“ No man ever accused me o’ being without charity, 
in moderation — in moderation,” said the Schoolmaster, 
with his spectacles glaring fiercely. “ But I am no for 
that charity that lets ye be led by the nose. I have my 
opeenions, charity is a good thing, a very good thing, but 
it needna make a fool o’ ye, and make people believe that 
ye are as blind as Eli. No, sir, wi’ due deference to you, 
I still consider Lord Earlshope to be ” 

In his excitement the Schoolmaster had unconsciously 
unfolded the check he held in his hands, and he now 
snddenly found himself looking at it. He did not finish 
the sentence. He waved his hand, as though to say, 
These are bygones ; I was right, but it is no matter ; 
and Lord Earlshope has mended.” 

“ And what do ye propose to do with the money ? 
not that there will be any difficulty in finding suitable 
directions,” said the Minister. 

“ That,” replied the Schoolmaster, with grave im- 
portance, “ is a matter for serious, and, I may add, 
patient, consideration, in which, sir, I would earnestly 
desire your assistance and advice. In the meantime, it 
is but fitting (such is my humble opeenion) that ac- 
knowledgment of his Lordship’s bounty should be made 
and that not in a formal manner, but in a friendly, a con- 


1 12 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


ciliatory manner, as I may say, in which I will show his 
Lordship that we of this parish recognize, appreciate, and 
commend these approaches, or overtures they might, I 
think, be properly called, on his part;, and who knows, 
sir, but that encouragement of this kind might have the 
effect of stimulating or exciting his Lordship to renew, 
I may say, in short, to repeat, these attentions of a gen- 
erous nature ■” 

Mr. Gillespie stopped here, not sure whether he 
had got to the end of his sentence or not. He then con- 
tinued, — 

“ I hope, sir, in your capacity of private friend of this 
young gentleman, and public and spiritual overseer of 
this parish, you will convey to him our sense of what he 
has done; and if you could bring him and the parish 
closer together ” 

“ At this present moment, on the contrary,” said the 
Minister, with a hesitating smile, “ Lord Earlshope pro- 
poses to carry me away from the parish. I have received 
an invite, with some members of my household, to go on 
a small voyage in his Lordship’s yacht, Lady Drum be- 
ing the instigator of the project, as I believe.” 

The spectacles of the Schoolmaster seemed to wax 
bigger. 

“ How do you think the parish would receive the 
proposal ? ” asked the Minister, rather timidly. 

“ I will make it my business to ascertain,” replied the 
Schoolmaster, with an air of authority. “ Nay, further, 
Mr. Cassilis, I wilbeven go the length of advising your 
parishioners to acquiesce. Why, sir, it is their duty. 
Lord Earlshope, Mr. Cassilis, is a man to be encouraged, 
he must be encouraged.” 

This was all that was wanted to confirm the Minister’s 
decision. He had for some time back seen fit to abandon 
the suspicions that had been suggested by his meeting 
Lord Earlshope and Coquette on the moor ; and the 
only question now was whether Coquette’s health 
would be greatly benefited by his accepting the invita- 
tion. 


/ 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. II3 

The Whaup made off at this moment, and went to 
Coquette. 

“You owe Gillespie a good turn for once/’ said he 
to her. “ The old fool has persuaded my father to go.” 


CHAPTER XVI 

COQUETTE LEAVES AIRLIE 

How brightly shone the sun on the welcome morn- 
ing of their departure ! when Coquette, as she looked out 
to catch a glimpse of the fair blue sea and the sunny 
hills of Arran, could scarce take time to curb the wild- 
ness of her dark hair. Already the open window let her 
drink in the fresh morning air, and she felt the warmth 
of the sun on her cheek. Generally, at her toilette, she 
sang, or rather hummed to herself, snatches of French 
songs, or even, I regret to say, endeavored to imitate 
the Whaup’s whistling of a Highland reel ; but on this 
morning she was far too excited for any such amuse- 
ments. The face that had been getting tired and wan 
of late was now flushed with happiness ; and when at 
last she came running downstairs, and out into the 
garden, her white dress fluttering in the sun, and her 
hair getting rather the better of the dark blue band in- 
terwoven with it, she fairly overwhelmed the boys with 
her demonstrations of affection and kindness. 

The Whaup’s brothers were practical young persons, 
and, though they still regarded this foreigner and 
Catholic as a dangerous companion, as somebody who 
had to be approached with caution, they had discovered, 
at an early period, that certain gold coins of French 
origin could be transformed at Ardrossan into an honest 
and respectable mintage. The amount of pocket-money 
which the reckless young woman lavished upon her 
cousins (excepting the Whaup, of course) was appalling ; 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


114 

nor could the observant Leezibeth make out whence 
came all the new pocket-knives, tools, and similar boyish 
luxuries which she discovered about the house. The 
boys themselves had an uneasy impression that there 
was something desperately wicked in having so much 
money ; and, indeed, had many private’ conversations 
among themselves about the specious arguments with 
which they might' cheat the devil if he happened to put 
in a claim for them on account of extravagance. 

“You must all be very good till I come back,” she 
said, now, “ for I am going to bring you all presents. I 
will buy you, what shall I buy you ? ” 

The boys began to laugh, but rather in a disap- 
pointed way. 

“ There is but wan thing ye’ll get to buy in the Hie- 
lands,” said Dougal, “ and that’s a herrinV 5 

“ And too good for you,” said the Whaup coming up, 
“ you greedy young pigs. If I hear you bargaining about 
presents any more I’ll present ye with a bottle o’ hazel 
oil, if ye ken what that is. Come along, Miss Coquette, 
and get your breakfast, and then show me what luggage 
you have. I dare say it’s twice as big as I can allow.” 

^ “ You allow ? Are you the master of the luggage ? ” 

“ I am, as you’ll find out,” said he. “ I have 411st 
taken half the pile of things that Leezibeth had packed 
up for my father, and shunted them into a drawer. We 
don’t mean to go to the Sandwich Islands.” 

“ Do we go to the Sandwich Islands ? ” said Coquette, 
simply. 

“ I said we don’t mean to go there,” repeated the 
Whaup, with asperity ; but I suppose you don’t know 
where that is, the French are so precious ignorant.” 

“ Worse luck,” said Coquette, with an expression of 
sincere penitence which made the Whaup burst out 
laughing. 

At length, some two hours afterwards, Coquette found 
herself seated in the little dog-cart which had brought 
her to Airlie. A sou * man was Andrew Bogue that day ; 
and sourer was he now. Nor word nor syllable would 
he utter ; and the more vivacious and talkative Coquette 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


”5 

became, speaking to her uncle, who sat behind, the 
Whaup having been sent oft on foot, the deeper and 
sterner became the gloom of his face. Perhaps he 
was none the less disposed to predict evil of this 
appalling departure from the sober and respectable rou- 
tine of the Manse, because of a severe encounter he had 
had with Leezibeth that morning. He saw that Leezi- 
beth had now wholly gone over to the enemy. 

When they reached the harbor, and saw the shapely 
vessel lying out at anchor, with her sails shining in the 
sunlight, they perceived that both the Whaup and Lady 
Drum had gone on board. Presently the pinnace was 
put off from the yacht, and in a few minutes Coquette 
and her uncle were being pulled out by the four blue- 
jackets. Lord Earlshope was at the gangwayto receive 
them. 

“ Why does he not wear a sailor’s uniform ? ” said 
Coquette to Mr. Cassilis, as they drew near. “ He does 
not seem to care about anything.” 

When they stepped on board, and Coquette had looked 
around with wonder on the whiteness of the deck, and 
the scrupulous neatness everywhere visible, Lady Drum 
came forward, and kissed her, and said, — 

“ My dear child, I hope you know about yachts, for I 
don’t, and I feel most uncomfortably in the way of every- 
body.” 

“ Yes, I know very well,” said Coquette. 

“ Why, all you have to do,” said Lord Earlshope, 
coming forward, “ is to sit in the cockpit there, an inno- 
vation I introduced for the very purpose of gettingladies 
out of the way during a race. You need have no fear of 
getting hit on the head bv a boom, or of being washed 
overboard either; and if a wave should come over the 
stern ” 

“ I hope there will be nothing of the kind,” said Lady 
Drum, looking indignantly out towards the sea. 

The prospect there was sufficiently reassuring. 
There was a light breeze from the southwest, which was 
just enough to ruffle the water and make it a dark blue. 
Overhead the sky was clear and calm, and the bluish- 


ii 6 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


gray peaks of Arran were faint and aerial in the midday 
mist. Everything promised a pleasant run up to Loch- 
fyne, if only the breeze would last. 

While the men were getting the vessel under way, 
Lord Earlshope’s visitors went down below. If Coquette 
had been pleased with the prettiness of the yacht above, 
she was now charmed with the decorations of the state- 
rooms and saloon. The transparent flowers painted on the 
skylights; the ornamentation and gilding of what she 
called the walls ; the innumerable little arrangements 
for comfort ; all these were matters for praise ; but the 
climax of her delight was found in a small harmonium 
which was placed in the saloon. 

“ I should have got a piano for you,” said Lord Earls- 
hope, making no secret of his having studied her pleas- 
ure in the matter, “ but t-hey don’t stand the sea so well. 
Now, Lady Drum, will you take Miss Cassihs into your 
little state-room, and when you have made yourselves 
thoroughly at home, and got out some wrappers for the 
sea-breezes, you know, you will find luncheon awaiting 
you here ? Mr. Cassilis, you will take a glass of sherry, 
won’t you ? You will always find it there. Mr. Tom, 
do you shoot ? ” 

“ Should think so ! v said the Whaup, who had appar- 
ently forgotten his sentiments of antagonism to Lord 
Earlshope. 

“I thought you would. You will find my breech- 
loader in your cabin, and the skipper will give you cart- 
ridges if you ask him. Now, I must go on deck.” 

“ I never thought he had so much go in him,” said 
the Whaup familialy to his father. 

“ So much what ?” said the Minister severely. 

“Why, life, energy. I thought he was rather a muff 
with his white fingers, and his lazy lounge and that. 
But he’s not half as bad a fellow as people say.” 

“ Lord Earlshope would be pleased to know that you 
approve of him,” said his father ; but the Whaup lost the 
sarcasm, for he had already run up the companion, to see 
what was going on above. His father, following, found 
that the Whaup had clambered half-way up the rattlings, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


117 

to get a view of the surrounding scenery as the yacht 
stood out to sea. 

When, some time- after, the luncheon-bell was rung, 
and Lady Drum and Coquette made their appearance, the 
latter was heard to say, — 

“ Why don’t we go away ? I do not like to remain 
in harbor.” 

But the moment she entered the saloon, and saw the 
table apparently heeling over in an alarming manner, she 
said, — 

“ We are at sea ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Lord Earlshope ; “ and missing a pretty 
part of the coast. -So you ought to hasten your lunch- 
eon.’*’ 

“ But what is the matter with the table ? ” said Lady 
Drum, making an effort to put it at right angles to her- 
self. Coquette screamed, and caught her hand. 

“ If you put it straight,” said Lord Earlshope, laugh- 
ing, “ you will see everything fly to the ground.” It was 
days, indeed, before Lady Drum could believe that this 
tumbling table was safe, and many a time she had to 
check herself from instinctively “ putting it straight.” 

Pleasant, indeed, on that bright and quiet afternoon 
was their run1?p the broad channel between Bute and 
Arran. Far away the coast of Ayrshire, which they had 
left, became paler in the light ; while on before them 
successive bays opened out, with silent hills overlooking 
them, and here and there the white glimmer of a sea-bird 
in their shadows. Down in the south the mountains 
that rise' from the lovely Loch Ranza had caught some 
clouds about their peaks, and were black, as the moun- 
tains of Arran generally are ; but all in front of them, 
the smooth hills of Bute and Inch Marnoch, the craggy 
wonders of the Kyles, the still shores of Cowal and Can- 
tire, lay steeped in a soft autumnal haze, with the rich 
colors of heather and fern only half glimmering through 
the silver veil. It was like a voyage into dreamland, so 
beautiful was the land and sea and sky around them, and 
so still. 

Such was the manner of their setting out. And in 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


118 

the evening they drew near the little harbor of Tarberfc, 
and all the west was aglow as if with fire. Even aLer 
they had dropped anchor, and the mountains of Cowal 
were black as night, there was a pale glare over the sky 
and out on the broad bosom of the loch. Then through 
the pallor of the twilight came the stars, growing and 
burning in the darkness, until Coquette thought they 
'seemed just above the points of the tall masts. She still 
lingered on deck, when all the others had gone below. 
The sails were down, lights run up, and through the sky- 
lights of the cabin came a dull yellow glow, and a sound 
of voices which spoke of a comfortable and happy party 
Beneath. Why was it that she was so sad ? She had 
had her heart’s wish, she was setting out on* the excur- 
sion which had hung before her longing eyes for many 
a day, and yet here she sat in the stern of the boat, look- 
ing up to the throbbing wonders of the heavens, or down 
into the starry plain of the sea, and feeling very lonely 
and miserable. 

Lord Earlshope came in search of her. 

“ Why do you sit here alone ? ” he said. 

“ I do not know,” said Coquette, rising wearily. 

“ They want you down below.’’ 

“ I will go down ; but it is very beautiful up here. I 
have never seen the stars so near. They seem to be just 
over the top of the hill there.” 

“ You will have many opportunities of admiring the 
wonderful sunsets and the clear nights of these high 
latitudes. You may make the cruise as long as you 
please, you know,” 

“ But you do not go with us? ” she asked, with some 
little embarrassment. 

“ For a day or two, to give you a start. Unless I am 
found to be so useful that you all ask me to stay.” 

“ Perhaps, then, you will come all the way with us ?” 
said Coquette, somewhat too eagerly. 

“ Perhaps I may.” 

Coquette went down into the cabin then, and every- 
body was struck during the evening by her extreme 
amiability and cheerfulness. She quite won the heart 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 1Z g 

of Lady Drum, who said that the effects of the sea-air 
on the young lady were surprising and gratifying, and 
needed only to be supplemented by a little gentian. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

LOCHFYNE. 

“ It is Eden ; it is the garden of the Lord ! ” said 
the Minister ; and the sad and sunken eyes that had 
grown dim over many books, that had grown weary, too, 
perhaps, with the bleakness of the upland moor, looked 
abroad over one of the fairest scenes in the world, and 
drank in the quiet and the clear sunshine of it. Par in 
front of him stretched the pale blue of Lochfyne, that 
was as still and smooth and glass-like as the pale-blue 
sky sbove. P'rom this point of the Knapdale shore 
away up to the fork of Loch Gilp there was not a rip- 
ple on the calm surface ; but over at the opposite shore 
of Kerry a slight breeze was bearing up from the south, 
and there the blue of the water was intense and almost 
dark. Beyond this plain of blue lay the brown and ruddy 
colors of the Kerry hills, soft and smooth in the mist of 
the heat, while along them moved - great dashes of shadow 
'thrown by the slowly passing clouds above. Through 
the stillness of the sunshine they heard the soft whistle 
of the curlew, and saw the solan flap his heavy white 
wings far down towards Arran, and watched the solitary 
heron standing among the brown weeds out. at the point of 
the shore, while now and again a salmon-trout would leap 
a foot into the air, and fall with a splash again into the 
clear water. Then all around them, where they sat on 
the pebbly beach, was the drowsy warmth of the sun 
glittering on the birch and hazel bushes by the road, 
gleamingon the great gray boulders, and falling mistily 
on the bushes and heather and rocks of the hillside. And 


120 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


all this was so still that it scarcely seemed to be of this 
world ; and the murmurs of a stream coming down from 
the hillside through the trees, trickling coolly and unseen 
beneath the tall ferns, had a far and mournful sound, 
like the sound of distant music in a dream. 

The stillness was broken by Coquette trying to 
whistle “ The Last Rose of Summer.” Then she uttered 
a little cry of delight as she saw Lord Earlshope and 
Lady Drum coming along the road underneath the trees; 
and when at length they had. drawn near, and had come 
down to the shore, Coquette said, — 

“ Please, Lady Drum, will you tell me why my uncle 
becomes sad when he sees a pretty day and a pretty 
place. The good weather does not cheer him ” 

“ It cheers you, at all events,” said Lady Drum, with 
a kindly scrutiny of the girl’s face. 44 It gives you a 
color and a brightness that makes an old woman like me 
feel young again only to look at ye. How have you been 
employing yourself ? 5 

“ I ? I have been trying to whistle as my cousin 
whistles, but I cannot do it like him, perhaps because I 
have no pockets. He never is able to whistle unless he 
puts his hands in his pockets, and looks careless, and 
stands so. Then I have watched the gray heron out at 
the rocks there, and I have been wishing he would get a 
fish. 

“ I have been wishing I had a gun,” said the practi- 
cal Whaup, with obvious discontent. 

“ And my uncle, he has been sitting and looking far 
away, looking tired, too, and weary, just as if he were 
Still in church.” 

“ Listening to one of my own sermons, I suppose ? ” 
said the Minister, taking his niece by the ear. “ I hope 
I have not been oppressing you with my dulness ? ” 

“Ah, no, no ! ” she said. “But I did not speak to 
you ; you were thinking of old years gone away, were 
you not ? ” 

The Minister looked at the girl, and her eyes seemed 
to have divined what he was thinking of. But presently 
she turned to Lord Earlshope, and said, — 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


1 2 I 


“ We go not to-day ? We do not perhaps to-morrow 
either ? ” 

“Why,” said Lord Earlshope, with a smile, “you 
might turn your newest accomplishments to some use. 
Could you whistle a breeze to us ? We £fe helpless you 
see, until we get wind.” 

“ I thought an English milord never wanted for any- 
thing that he did not get,” she said, with a look of grave 
surprise. 

The Whaup began to think that his cousin was a 
deal to clever to be safe. 

“Would it grieve you so much to stay here a few 
days ? ” said Lord -Earlshope. 

“ Not at all,” said Coquette ; “ I should prefer to stay 
here always.” 

“ I have had the yacht taken round to Maol-Darach 
Bay, that little shingly creek west of the harbor, since 
you complained of the smell of herring this morning. 
And when you wish to go. into the village you must 
a§k the captain to send a boat with you. By the way, 
there will be a boat here presently for you. I thought 
you might be too tired to care about walking back.” 

“ It was very kind of you to think of all that,” said 
Coquette, timidly, and looking to the ground. 

It had already come to be regarded as a matter of 
course t'hat everybody should consider Coquette as of 
first importance, and obey her slightest whim, and an- 
ticipate her smallest wishes. But the most systematic 
and persistent of her slaves was Lord Earlshope himself, 
who seemed to have discovered a new method of pass- 
ing the time in trying to please this young person by 
small attentions ; and these he offered in a friendly and 
familiar way, which robbed them of any significance, 
they might otherwise have had. The small tyrant, with 
the dark eyes, and the delicate, finely formed face, ac- 
cepted thes^ ministrations in that spirit of careless amia- 
bility which was natural to her. Sometimes, but rarely, 
she would appear to be struck by this or that act of 
kindness, and seem almost disturbed that she could not 
convey a sense of her gratitude in the broken tongue 


12 2 


A DAUGHTER OF IIE Til. 


she spoke ; but ordinarily she passed from hour to hour 
in the same happy unconsciousness and delight in the 
present, glad that all her friends were around her, and 
comfortable, glad that she could add to their enjoyment 
by being cheerful and merry. Selfish she certainly was 
not ; and there was no sort of trouble or pain she would 
not have .endured to . give pleasure to those who were 
her friends ; but she would have been blind, indeed, had 
she not perceived that to give pleasure she had only to 
allow herself to be pleased, that her mere presence dif- 
fused a sense of satisfaction through the small meetings 
that were held in the cabin of the yacht, when the swing- 
ing lamps were lit, and th^ stars overhead shut out, and 
the amusements of the evening commenced. The Whaup 
used to say that she was continually making pretty pic- 
tures ; and he even condescended at times to express 
approval at the neatness of her dress, or to suggest 
alterations in the disposal of her big masses of dark- 
brown hair. * 

“ And in time, you know,” he remarked todier, “ you 
wi-11 get to talk like other people. v 

“I do not wish to talk like you,” said Coquette. 

“ I can at least make myself intelligible,” he re- 
torted. 

“ Do not I become intelligible ? ” asked Coquette, 
meekly ; and then, of course, the least symptom of doubt 
on her part disarmed the Whaup’s criticism, and made 
him declare that she spoke very well indeed. 

The measured splash of oars was now heard, and the 
heron slowly rose into the air with a few heavy flaps of 
his wings, and proceeded to settle on a farther promon- 
tory. The boat, with its four rowers, came round the 
point ; and in a few minutes the heavily laden boat was 
on its way back to the yacht. 

Coquette was delighted with Naol-Daroch Bay, she 
insisted upon landing at once; and she and the Whaup 
accordingly ran up the white shingle, and made for the 
hillside. Coquette stood upon a rock that was perched 
high among the heathery roughnesses of the hill, and 
waved her handkerchief to those who had by this time 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


23 


gone on board the yacht , Lord Earlshope waved his 
cap and Mr. Cassilis his walkingstick ; Lady Drum had 
gone below. 

“ Now we shall go up this hill, and round and round, 
and back by the rocks of the shore,” said Coquette. 

“ What’s the use ? ” said the Whaup. “ I haven’t a 
gun ; and if I had, I daren’t shoot up here.” 

“ Why must you kill something wherever you go ? ” 
said Coquette. 

“ Why must you scramble along a hill, all for nothing, 
like a goat ?” said the Whaup. 

“ Because it is something to do,” said Coquette. 

‘‘You are a pretty invalid!” remarked the Whaup. 
“ But here, give me your hand, if you want climbing, I'll 
give you enough of it.” 

“ No,” said Coquette, planting her foot firmly. “ I 
like you when you are gentle, like Lord Earlshope ; but 
I am nut going to be pulled by a big rough boy.” 

“ I hav£ a great mind to carry you against your will,” 
said the Whaup, with the demon of mischief beginning 
to grin in his eyes. 

“ I would kill you if you tried,” said Coquette, with 
a frown. 

He came forward and took her hand quite gently. 

“ Have I vexed you ? Are you really angry, Co- 
quette ? You didn’t think I was serious, did you ? You 
know I wouldn’t vex you, if I got the world for it.” 

A certain quivering of the lip, for a moment uncer- 
tain, resolved itself into a smile, and that into a laugh, 
and then Coquette said, — 

“You are a very good boy, Tom, when you like. 
Somebody will get very fond of you some day.” 

The Whaup grew more serious then ; and, indeed, it 
seemed to Coquette that ever after that time her cousin’s 
manner towards her was more reserved and grave than 
it had been before. He did not try to drag her into his 
boyish pranks, as he had been wont to do. On the con- 
trary, he himself seemed somewhat altered, and at times 
she caught him in a deep reverie. He began to talk 
more about his coming winter studies at the Glasgow 


124 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT, 


University ; and was even found, on rare occasions, ab- 
sorbed in a book, 

He did not cease to exhibit those frank and manly 
ways which she had always liked, nor did he even put 
any marked restraint on his relations with her. He was 
as impertinently straightforward as ever, if the neatness 
of her wristbands called for commendation, or if the 
streak of darlc-blue ribbon did not sufficiently curb the 
wildness of her hair. But he was more serious in his 
ways ; and sometimes she caught him looking at her from 
a distance in a cold way, as if she were a stranger,, and 
he was desirous to impress her appearance on his 
memory. 

That evening he said to her briefly, — 

“ Lord Earlshope and I are going to start at two to- 
morrow morning, to go along the coast and see if we can 
shoot some seals.” 

“ But why should you take the trouble to kill them ? 
Is it a pleasure to kill them ? ” • 

“ Bah ! ” he said. “ Women don’t understand these 
things. You wouldn’t hear a man ask such a question 
— except, perhaps, Earlshope himself, he might, he seems 
to think in lots of things exactly as you do.” 

This was said with no particular intention ; and yet 
the girl looked apprehensive as though the Whaup had 
been making some complaint. 

Then some time after he remarked to her, — 

“ I don’t think wicked people seem so wicked when 
you come to know them.” 

- Coquette was looking over the taffrail ; she turned 
towards him and said, calmly, — 

“ Do you mean me or Lord Earlshope ? ” 

“ Why should you always think of him ? ” said the 
Whaup. “ Would you be very angry v if what I said ap- 
plied to both of you ? ” 

With that he laughed and walked away, leaving Co- 
quette to wonder whether her cousin, too." regarded her 
as a wicked person. 


i A DAUGHTER OF IIETH. 


I2 5 


CHAPTER XVIII. 


COQUETTE SAILS TO THE NORTH. 


In the darkness the yellow lights of the yacht were 
shining on the spars and the rigging — the water that 
lapped against her side sparkled with stars of phosphor- 
escent fire, and a slight wind, coming through the gloom, 
told of the rustling of the ferns and bushes on the hill- 
side, when certain dusky figures appeared on deck, and 
began to converse in whispers. The Whaup was yawn- 
ing dreadfully, and perhaps wishing there was not a se^l 
in the world ; but he had proposed the adventure, to 
which Lord Earlshope had good naturedly acceded, and 
so he felt himself bound in honor not to retract. 

With their guns in their hands they got down into 
the little boat which was waiting for them, and the two 
men began to pull away gently from the yacht. The 
blades of their strokes struck a flash of light deep into 
the water ; and the white stars of the waves burned even 
more keenly than the other reflected stars which, farther 
away, were glittering on the black surface of the sea. 
Towards the land some vague and dusky forms that were 
scarcely visible were known to be the iron-bound coast ; 
and in uncomfortable proximity the Whaup could hear 
the waves splashing in upon the rocks. There was no 
other sound but that and the measured fall of the oars. 

All overhead the innumerable stars burned white and 
clear ; there were flickerings of the reflected light on the 
moving plain of the sea; and in there at the shore a 
vague darkness, and the dashing of unseen waves. 

When they had thus proceeded a certain distance 
along the coast, the bow of the boat was turned shore- 
ward, and the men pulled gently in towards the rocks. 

In the starlight the outlines of the hills above now be- 
came dimly visible ; but down at the shore, whither they d 



j 2 6 A DAUGHTER OF HETIT. 

were tending, blackness universal seemed to hide both 
shore and sea. The noise all around them, however, 
told the Whaup that they must be near land ; and in a 
few minutes the boat was cautiously run in, one of the 
men jumping out and holding her bow. With a double- 
barrelled gun as a balancing-pole, the Whaup now found 
himself struggling over a series of rocks that were 
treacherously covered with sea-weed; while, as he got 
on to higher ground, the rocks increased in size, and 
the gaps between them were plunged in even profounder 
darkness. Presently he heard Lord Earlshope calling 
on him to halt ; and shortly thereafter the sailor, who 
had landed, appeared clambering over the boulders in 
order to take the lead. 

Their course was now a sufficiently perilous one. 
The great masses of tumbled rock that here form the 
coast-line appeared to go precipitately down into the 
sea, a great black gulf which they could hear splashing 
beneath them ; while ever and anon they came to deep 
ravines in the sides of the hill, down which small stream- 
lets could be heard trickling. Their progress along 
this rough coast, generally some fifty or a hundred feet 
above the sea, was picturesque but uncomfortable. The 
Whaup found that, in spite of all his wild plunges and 
daring leaps, the sailor distanced him considerably ; and 
ahead of him he could only indistinctly see a black 
figure which sometimes rose up clear and defined against 
the starlit sky, and at other times was vaguely seen to 
crawl along the surface of a gray shelf of rock like some 
dusky alligator. Now he found himself up to the neck 
among immense brakens ; again he was plunged into 
some mossy hole, in which his boots were like to re- 
main. Not unfrequently he had to go on hands and 
knees across some more than usually precipitous shelf, 
the barrels of his gun making sore work of his knuckles 
as he clung to the rough surface. 

Another halt was called. When the small bay 
around Battle Island, where the seals were expected to 
be found, had nearly been reached, it was determined, 
to prevent noise, that they should take off their boots, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


127 


and creep along the rocks on their stocking-soles. The 
stars were now paling ; and, as the faint light of dawn 
would soon appear, every precaution was necessary that 
the seals should not become aware of their approach. 
No sooner, indeed, had the Whaup removed his boots 
than he danced a wild dance of exultation, so delighted 
was he to find that the soles of his stockings caught so 
easily and surely on the surface of the boulders. There 
was now far less risk of a sudden tumble headlong into 
the sea, although, to be sure, even up here among the 
rooks, it was not pleasant, in the cold of the night, to 
find one’s feet go down into a pool of mossy water. 

“ Do you regret having come ? ” said Lord Earls- 
hope. 

“ Regret it !” said the Whaup. “ I’d wade a mile 
up to my neck to shoot a seal.” 

Then he added, with his usual frankness, — 

“ I didn’t expect you’d have been able to keep up 
with us.” 

“ Why ? ” 

“ Well,” said the Whaup, seeing before him the out- 
line of a tall, lithe, slim figure, “ I didn’t think you were 
much good for this sort of rough work.” 

Earlshope laughed, not very loudly. 

“ Perhaps not,” he said. He did not think it worth 
while to astonish Master Tom with tales of what he had 
done in the way of muscular performances. “ But you 
should not be severe on me. I rather fancy this is a 
piece of folly ; but I have undertaken it merely to in- 
terest you.” 

The Whaup noticed at this moment that his com- 
panion held the heavy rifle which he carried in a very 
easy and facile manner. 

“ You may be stronger than you look,” observed the 
Whaup, throwing out this qualification from mere good- 
humor. He still retained an impression that Earlshope, 
with his lady-like fingers, and his pretty mustache, and 
his delicate jewelry, was something of a milksop 

Absolute silence was now the watchword as they 
advanced. There was no scraping of heels on the grit 


28 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT 


of the rocks, no clink of a trigger-guard in putting down 
the hand for safety’s sake. In a thief-like fashion they 
stole along the high and rugged coast, now clambering 
over huge blocks of stone, and again fighting their way 
through fern and bush, with their heads low and their 
footfalls light. At length the sailor stopped, and mo- 
tioned to Lord Earlshope and the Whaup to descend. 
Great was the joy of the latter on perceiving that at 
last there was a level bit of shore towards which they 
were making their way. Having gone down, in a snake- 
like fashion, over the great boulders, they now crept 
downward towards the shore, and at length took up 
their position behind two pieces of rock, from which 
they could see the channel in front of them, lying be- 
tween the land and the dusky object which they knew 
to be Battle Island. 

Very still and weird was this place in the dark of 
the morning, with the cold air from the sea stirring in 
the brushwood overhead, and with the ceaseless plash 
of the waves echoing all along the solitary coast. A faint 
film of cloud had come over the sky and hid the stars ; but 
in the east there seemed to be a pale wan gray, far over 
the dark water towards Ardlamont Point. And, by and 
by, as they sat on the cold rocks, and waited, there became 
visible, whence it had come no one could say, a brilliant 
planet, burning like gold in the gray mist above the 
eastern sea, and they knew that it was the star of the 
morning. Very slowly the gray light grew ; very slowly 
the dark outline of Battle Island became more defined ; 
and the black hollows of the waves that came in towards 
the shore had now a pale hue between them, that scarcely 
could be called light. 

Patiently they waited, scanning the outline of the is- 
land rocks, and watching all the water around for the 
rolling of the seals. There was no sign of life. Perhaps 
the gray in the east was waxing stronger, it was impossi- 
ble to tell, for their eyes had grown bewildered with the 
constant motion of the tumbling waves and the eager 
scrutiny of these black lines and hollows. 

Suddenly there was a quick chirp just beside them, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


129 


and the Whaup’s heart leaped with surprise. He turned, 
to find a sealark hopping quite near him ; and at the same 
'moment that he perceived this first symptom of the 
awaking life of the dawn, he became aware that it had 
grown lighter out by Ardlamont Point. 

And now, with a strange and rapid transition, as if the 
world had begun to throb with the birth of the new day, 
there arose in the eastern sky a great smoke of red, a 
pink mist that rose and spread as if from some great 
conflagration beyond the line of the sea. All in the west, 
by the far shores of Knapdale and up the great stretch 
of Lochfyne, lay a dense gray fog, in which hills and is- 
lands lay like gloomy clouds ; but out there at the eastern 
horizon there was a glow of rose-colored smoke, which as 
yet had no reflection on the sea. And while they looked 
on it, half forgetting the object of their quest in the 
splendor of this sight, the perpetual wonder and mystery 
of the dawn, the red mist parted, and broke into long 
parallel lines of cloud, which were touched with sharp, 
jewel-red lines of fire ; and as the keenness of the crim- 
son waxed stronger and stronger, there came over the 
sea a long and level flush of dull salmon-color, which 
bathed the waves in its light, leaving their shadows an in- 
tense and dark green. The glare and the majesty of this 
spectacle lasted but for a few minutes. The intensity of 
the colors subsided ; the salmo-n-colored waves grew gray 
and green ; a cold twilight spread over the sky ; and with 
the stirring of the wind came in the new life of the day, 
the crowing of some grouse far up in the heather, the 
chirping of the birds in the bushes, the calling of some 
solitary goat on the hill, and the slow flapping of a pair 
of herons coming landward from the sea. 

Suddenly Lord Earlshope, who had been peering over 
the edge of the rock before him, touched his companion’s 
arm. The Whaup went forward on his knees, and 
stealthily looked over in the direction pointed out. He 
could see nothing but the dark rocks of Battle Island, in 
the midst of the grayish-green water. He was about to 
express his disappointment, when it seemed to him that 
the outline of a bit of rock at the end of the island was 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


130 

moving. Could it be the undulations of the waves whichj 
were surging all around ; or was that motion of the blackj 
line the motion of an animal that had got up on it from' 
the water ? ! 

Lord Earlshope handed his rifle to the Whaup, with 
a hurried gesture. But the arrangement had been that, 
while the one had a rifle and the other a double-barrelled 
fowling-piece loaded with heavy shot, the distance of the 
seal was to decide which should fire. Accordingly the 
Whaup refused to take the rifle. 

“ It is your shot,” he whispered. 

“ I don’t want to kill the brute : why should I ? ” said 
Lord Earlshope, carelessly. 

Even as the Whaup was in the act of putting the 
rifle cautiously over the rock he remembered what Co- 
quette had said, and also that he had made the haphazard 
guess that Earlshope would probably say the same. But 
there was little time to think of such things. His breath 
was coming and going at double-quick time, and he held 
his teeth tight as he brought the sight of the barrel 
up to the line of rock. It rested there for a moment, and 
there was a spurt of fire, a bang that echoed and re-echoed 
up among the rocky hills, and then Lord Earlshope rose, 
glad to be able to stretch his limbs at last. 

“ You have either missed altogether or shot him dead ; 
there was no movement whatever when you fired.” 

“ By Jove, then ! ” said the Whaup, with tremendous 
eagerness, “ I have shot him dead if there was a seal 
there at all, for I know the muzzle of the rifle was as 
steady as a rock when I fired.” 

“ We shall see presently,” said his companion. “ They 
will bring the boat up now.” 

Presently the two men were seen pulling round the 
point, and then Lord Earlshope and the Whaup went 
out to the edge of the water, got into the boat, and were 
pulled out to the island. Very anxiously did one of 
them, at least, regard that small, dark promontory ; but 
there was nothing visible. They drew nearer, they now 
saw the surface of the rocks clearly, there was nothing 
lying there. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


13 1 

“Very sorry,” said Lord Earlshope, “ but you seem 
to have missed.” 

“ I didn’t miss ! ” the Whaup insisted. Let us 
land, and see.” 

So at a convenient spot they ran the boat in and got 
out on the rocks, and then made their way along to the 
end of the island. Suddenly the Whaup uttered a pierc- 
ing yell of delight, and began to clamber along the rocks 
in the most reckless fashion. Lord Earlshope, follow- 
ing after him, found him grasping with both his hands 
a round-headed, fat, and limp-looking animal, which he 
was endeavoring to drag up to the higher platform. 

“ There, did I miss ? ” he cried. 

“ Well, since you have got him, what do you mean 
to do with him ? ” said Lord Earlshope, with a smile. 
“ You have had the satisfaction of killing him, and the 
much rarer satisfaction of getting him after killing him, 
but what then ? ” 

The Whaup dropped the seal on the rocks again, 
and looked at the unfortunate beast with some disap- 
pointment mingled with his pride. 

“ What do they make of these beasts ? You can’t 
make sealskin waistcoats out of that soapy-looking 
stuff ? ” 

“ You may eat him, if you like, I suppose he is not 
much oilier than a solan. However, we may as well lug 
him into the boat, and get back to Maol-Daroch. It is 
singular we have seerl none of his companions, though.” 

The men approached the slippery animal with much 
more caution than the Whaup had displayed, they were 
evidently not quite sure that the whiskered mouth might 
not open and proceed from a bark to a bite. He was 
got into the boat at last, Lord Earlshope and the Whaup 
following ; and again the fall of the oars was heard 
along the lonely coast. It was now broad daylight ; and 
when they reached Maol-Daroch Bay the sun was shin- 
ing on the green hillside, and on the white beach, and 
on the far blue plain of the sea. 

Coquette was standing at the stern of the yacht as 
they approached, with the sunlight coloring her cheek 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


and gleaming on the white handkerchief she waved to 
them. 

“ Have you had a success ? ” she said. “ Oh, how 
very miserable you look ! ” 

“ It isn’t half as meeserayble as we feel,” remarked 
the Whaup, who was sleepy and hungry and stiff. 

“ You have not shot nothing ! ” said Coquette, clap- 
ping her hands, “ or you would come home proud and 
fierce, like the old north warriors when they did come 
home from the sea. What is that in the boat ? Ah ! 
You shoot one ? yes ! It is a beastly looking, I mean it 
is hideous, horrid ! ” 

The seal was allowed for the present to remain in 
the small boat, and Lord Earlshope and the Whaup 
came on deck. To the sleepy eyes of the Whaup, who 
was cold and wretched in spite of his triumph, his cousin 
seemed quite offensively cheerful and bright and com- 
fortable. 

“ Have you had breakfast yet ? ’’ said Lord Earlshope. 

“ No,” she said. “ I have made friends with your 
captain, and he has given me two apples and a big 
bunch of grapes. I am sorry I have eaten all — I can- 
not give you one.” 

“ Thank you,” said Lord Earlshope. " I suppose 
your cousin will follow my example, get downstairs and 
have a sleep. Good bye till luncheon-time, Miss Cassilis, 
I presume by then we shall be up at Ardrishaig.” 

So they went below,, and Coquette sat down, and 
took up a book she had been carrying with her. But 
she could not read, for there was sunlight abroad, and 
the fluttering of wind through the thin ropes that 
stretched up into the blue, and the ripple of the bright 
water all around. They were about to set out now on 
their voyage northward, that far wandering into the un- 
known Western Isles of which she had dreamed, and 
he had spoken no word of his leaving them. Would he 
go all the way, then, forgetting the half-promise that 
had been made, and spend all this happy time with them, 
afar from the dull routine-life and the harsh-thinking 
people of the land ? As she thought of the fair prospect 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


*33 


that was thus opened out before her, the pages of the 
book that lay in the sunshine were filled with pictures, 
wonderful landscapes that burned in the brightest of 
colors, and had the stirring of wind and of light in them, 
Lady Drum came on deck, and was surprised to find the 
girl sitting all alone, looking so wonderfully bright and 
happy. 

“ To-day we set sail,” said Coquette, almost laughing 
with pure gladness, “ and go away, away beyond all you 
can think of, among the hills and mountains and the sea.’’ 

“ Perhaps you would be glad not to come back ? ” 
said Lady Drum, looking into the happy face, and hold- 
ing both the girl’s hands. 

“ Yes, I should be glad not to come back, it is so 
pleasant here, and where we are going, will not that be 
far more pleasant ? ” 

“ That is what young folks always think,” said Lady 
Drum ; “ always looking forward with hope in their eyes. 
But we who have got older, and have gone farther on the 
voyage, we look back.” 

And while these two and Mr. Cassilis were at break- 
fast they heard the sails being hoisted above ; and when 
they went on deck they found the great breadths of white 
canvas lying over before a southerly breeze ; and there 
was a hissing of water at the bow and along the bulwarks ; 
and, while Maol-Darock Bay and Tarbert, and all the 
rocks about were slowly receding to the south, before 
them there opened up the great blue breadth of Lock- 
fyne, with the far, faint hills shining whitely in the sun. 




CHAPTER XIX. 

COQUETTE DISCOURSES. 

“I think your cousin is very fond of you,” said Lady 
Drum, with a good-natured smile, to Coquette. Thev 
were running up the blue* water of Lochfyne, with alig' 
breeze keeping the Caroline s canvas as tight as a dru 


134 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


The Whaup was up at the bow, lying prone on the deck, 
with the barrels of his breech-loader peeping over the 
bulwarks. 

“ Oh, yes, I am sure he is,” said Coquette, seriously. 
“ He will do anything for me ; he has dared to fight dis- 
agreeable people for me ; he has got into danger for me ; 
he is very kind, and just now, look ! he is trying to get 
for me some wild bird, I do not know its name, which 
has beautiful feathers.” 

“All that is nothing,” said Lady Drum, taking Co- 
quette’s hand in hers. “ Don’t you think that some day 
or other he may ask you to marry him ? ** 

The elderly lady who was now looking at Coquette’s 
face expected, as elderly ladies do expect when they be- 
gin to tease girls about love affairs, that her companion 
would blush and protest and be pleased, and affect to be 
indignant. On the contrary, Coquette said, simply and 
gravely, 

“Yes, I have thought of that. But he is too young.” 

“ And you also, perhaps. In a year or two he will 
be a man, and you will be marriageable.” 

“ Then,” said Coquette, dubiously, “ it may be. I 
do not know, because my uncle has not spoken to me of 
any such thing ; but he may think it a good marriage, 
and arrange it.” 

“ Bless me, lassie! ” exclaimed Lady Drum, in amaze- 
ment. “ Is it true that folks make slaves of their chil- 
dren in that way in Frai.lce ? I have heard of it; I did 
not believe it. In this country girls arrange their own 
marriages.” 

“ That, too, is very good,” said Coquette, “ when it 
is with their parents’ wish. It is of more consequence 
that a girl pleases her parents than herself, is it not ? ” 

“ And make herself miserable all her life ? ” said 
Lady Drum, startled to find herself arguing, in defiance 
of all precedent, on the side 'of youth against age.” 

“ But that does not happen,” said Coquette. “ Now 
one of my good friends at Nantes — she was told by her 
’'ents that she had to marry a young gentleman who 
s coming home from the Martinique, and had never 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


*35 

been to France before. I remember she and her parents 
did go down by the railway to St. Nazaire when they 
heard the boat had come ; and a week or two after I did 
see Babiche, that is Isabella, you know, and oh, how 
proud and happy she was. And they are married, and 
live at Paimboeuf, just across the river; and Babiche is 
as'happy as she can be, but then/’ added Coquette, wist- 
fully, “ the young gentleman was very good-looking.” 

They were interrupted by a loud “ bang ! ” at the bow. 
The Whaup had fired at some divers which were some 
distance off on the water ; but they “ ducked the flash,” 
and Coquette was not enriched with any of their plumage. 
Then she resumed : — 

“ What I do think very good is this/’ said Coquette : 
“ when your parents speak of a marriage, and it is left 
fixed, so that, if they die, and you are left alone, and you 
have no friends, there is one person who comes to you 
and says, ‘Now I will take care of you.’ And the same 
it is if you have got into trouble, suppose that you did 
become miserable through making an attachment for some 
one who does not care for you, there is always this good 
friend who likes you, and you can marry, and forget all 
that is past, and be like other people for the rest of your 
life.” 

Lady Drum could scarcely believe her ears. Had 
she been called upon to argue on the usual side, she 
could have repeated those admirably wise maxims w^ 1 - 
elderly ladies have at their command (and wh‘ 
never thought of obeying in their youth) ; l 
things were ordered differently in France, \ 
young creature, whose soft dark eyes were a j 
made to steal men’s hearts away, could be founc. 
arguing a business-like view of love affairs whic 
a shrewd and able Scotch-woman would have scrupi 
advance. 

“You mean, ’’.said Lady Drum, “ that French girls 
like their parents to choose a husband, so that if they 
have an unfortunate love affair, they can still fall back on 
this substitute ? ” 

“Oh, no,” said Coquette ; “you do say things 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


I30 

harshly. But who knows what might happen ? and if 
your old fiancd is still faithful, and would like to marry, 
you make him happy, do you not ? ” 

“ And is that the role you have sketched out for your 
good-natured cousin ? ” asked Lady Drum, rather vexed 
with this plain enunciation of a theory which, although 
it was based upon filial submission, seemed to her to have 
dangerous elements in it. 

“ Ah, no,” said Coquette, gravely. “ I hope I shall 
never have to go to him and say that I am willing to be- 
come his wife only because I am miserable and unhappy. 
He deserves something better than that, does he not ? " 
“ And so do you,” said Lady Drum, in kindly fashion. 
“You must not go anticipating misfortune for yourself 
in that way. You must forget, the notions these French 
people put into your head. You will take to our simple 
Scotch habits, and you will marry the man you love best, 
and not any substitute at anybody’s bidding. A pleas- 
ant courtship, a happy marriage, and an even, comfort- 
able, respectable life, that is the custom here.” 

Indeed, Lady Drum’s notions of romance had been 
derived chiefly from the somewhat easy and confident 
overtures made by .Sir Peter while he was yet a young 
man, and had a waist. The gay and rotund Sir Peter at no 
time would have looked well in the character of Man- 
fred ; and his performance on a guitar under his mis- 
tress’s window >vould have been but indifferent. Lady 
°w she was as happy as most married women; 
hat these dangerous French ideas about wild 
being condoned by an after marriage with a 
.hosen by relatives would not be translated 
ncongenial and highly matter-of-fact atmos- 
vVestern Scotland. 

nought,” said Coquette, “ that the Scotch people 
very hard in their obedience to duty, and against 
_asure and comfort. Then I said to myself, ‘ Alas ! I 
shall never become Scotch.’ But now I do think on one 
point I am more dutiful than you. I would marry any- 
body that my uncle and all of you considered I ought to 
marry.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


*37 


“ And make love to somebody else, as is the fashion 
in France ! ” said Lady Drum, with a touch of anger. 

“ It is no such fashion in France,” said Coquette. 
/* It is only that the Scotch are ignorant of $11 people but 
[ themselves, and think nobody so good as themselves, 
and are suspicious.” < — 

Lady Drum’s anger broke into a smile at the pretty 
vehemence with which Coquette fought for her country- 
women ; and at this moment Lord Earlshope came on 
deck and asked what was the matter in dispute. Co- 
quette caught Lady Drum’s hand, and pressed it. The 
old Scotchwoman looked at the girl, and saw that she 
was quite pale, a circumstance that puzzled her not a 
little in after moments of reflection. 

“ Well,” said Lady Drum, obeying Coquette’s un- 
spoken entreaty, “we were talking about — about French 
schools for the most part.” 

Further inquiry was rendered impossible, for at this 
moment the yacht was running into the harbor of Ardris- 
haig, and there was a good deal of bustle on board. The 
Whaup came aft also, taking the cartridges out of his 
gun, and began to make vague suggestions about lunch. 
Finally, it was resolved that, so soon as Mr. Cassilis 
could be prevailed on to remove his books and writing 
materials from the table of the saloon, they should go 
down to have that meal which was troubling the mind of 
the Whaup, and so escape the tedium of the preparations 
necessary for going through the canal. 

Why was Coquette so silent and disUaite when, after 
a long and solemn grace from the Minister, they began 
the French-looking repast which had been served for 
them ? 

“ You are still thinking of the pension , are you not, 
Miss Cassilis?” said Lord Earlshope. “You should 
give us some initiation into the mysteries of so sacred a 
place. Was there anything romantic about it ? ” 

“ Our pension was full of mystery and romance,” * 
said Coquette, brightening up, “ because of two German 
1 - dies who were there. They introduced, what 
$ 1 if ? — exaltation. Do you know what it is ? 


f 


138 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


When one girl makes another exaltee, because of her 
goodness or her beauty, and worships her, and kisses 
her dress when she passes her, and serves her in all 
things, yet dare not speak to her ? And the girl who is 
exaltee , she must be proud and cold, and show scorn 
for her attendant, even although she has been her friend 
It was these German young ladies from the Bohemian- 
Wald who introduced it, and they were tajl' and dark, 
and very beautiful, and many would have wished to make 
them exaltees ; but they were always the first to seek 
out some one whom they admired very much, and no one 
was so humble and obedient as they were. All the 
pension was filled with it, it was a religion, an enthusi- 
asm, and you would see girls crying and kneeling on the 
floor, to show their love and admiration for their friend.” 

“ And you, were you ever exaltee ? ” asked Lord Earls- 
hope. 

“ No,” said Coquette, with a little shrug,. “ One or 
two of my friends did wish to make me exaltee , but I 
did laugh at them, and they were angry. I did not 
wish to be cruel to my friends. I did prefer to go about 
and be friends with everybody in the middle of so much 
distraction.” 

“ And did you ever exalt anybody ? ” 

“ No, it was too troublesome,” said Coquette. At 
which Lady Drum smiled. 

“ It seems to me,” observed the Whaup, coolly, “ that 
it was a clever device to let a lot of girls make love to 
each other, for want of anybody else. It was keeping 
their hand in, as it were.” 

“ It is a pity you were not there,” said Coquette, 
graciously. “ We should have been charmed to make 
you exaltee.” 

“ And do you think I’d have treated any of you with 
scorn ? ” said the Whaup, with a grin, and quite ignor- 
ing Coquette’s retort. “ No. Far from it. I should 
have ” 

The Whaup glanced at his father, and paused, in- 
deed, his father was calmly regarding him. 9 

“ You would have gone from one to the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


I 3 9 

Lord Earlshope, gravely, “ and persuaded her that she 
was the victim of a hallucination.” 

“In worshipping me ? ” said the Whaup. “ Well, 
now, I call that a very good bit of sarcasm. There is 
no spite in it, as in women’s sarcasm, but a clean, sharp 
sword-thrust, straight from the shoulder, skewering you 
as if you were an eel, and as if you had nothing to do 
but wriggle.” * 

“ Thomas,” said the Minister, severely, “ you are not 
accustomed to take so much claret.” 

“That, sir,” replied the Whaup, with perfect sang 
froid y “ is why I am helping myself so liberally at pres- 
ent, with Lord Earlshope’s kind permission.” 

Lady Drum shook her head ; but Coquette 
laughed in her low, quiet fashion ; and the Whaup famil- 
iarly nodded to Lord Earlshope, as much as to say, 
“ Gave it to the old boy that time.” 

Then, having fetched hats and shawls from their re- 
spective state-rooms, they went above and got on shore, 
setting out to walk along the banks of the Crinan until 
the Caroline should get clear of the locks, 


CHAPTER XX. 

LETTERS FORM AIRLIE. 

“ Oh,” said Coquette, as they walked along the wind- 
ing path, with the beautiful scenery of the district con 
tinually opening up before them, “ I did get two leh is 
for you, uncle, at Tarbert, and forgot all about titer. 
Here they are ; shall I read them ? ” ng with 

The two letters which she produced from -hal sound- 
had the Airlie stamp on them ; and Mr. C' reproof and 
bade her do as she pleased. So she brokon of preachers 
first, and began to read aloud : — that the church 

Honored Sir and master in thd entrapped in the 


1 40 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


pen to let you know that I have been ’ — what is this ?” 
said Coquette. 

The Minister took it from her, and continued him- 
self : — 

“ — that I have been stung. Atweel I wat no man 
ever heard me complain unnecessary-wise about my 
poseetion in life, which I accept with gratitude and 
humeelity from the Giver of all Good, to wit, the Dis- 
penser of all Mercies at present and to come ; but I 
maun tak the leeberty o’ saying, honored Sir, that I can- 
not bide in this house any langer to be treated worse 
than the beast that perisheth. From the fingers to the 
elbows, and my face and neck likewise, and I covered 
wi’ the venomous stings o’ bees, and do suffer a pa::: 
grievous, and like unto the plagues which were put on 
the people of Egypt for their sins. Honored Sir, I canna 
bear wi’ they callants any longer, as I chanced upon one 
o' them laughing like to split, and am aware it was a 
skeem to inflict this wrong and injury upon me, which 
I howp will cause you to inquire into, and begging the 
favor of a reply to say when ye are coming back, and 
what sore punishment will be meeted out to them tha' 
richly deserve the same, I am, your humble and obedient 
servant in the Lord, 

“Andrew Bogue. ’ 

“Can it be,” said the Minister, when he had read 
this letter aloud, “ can it be that those' mischievous boys 
have conspired to set a lot of bees to sting him ? ” 

Coquette looked somewhat frightened, but the Whaup 
observed, cheerfully, — 

g* -“Indeed, sir, those brothers of mine are fearful. I 
y ou ‘done my best with them to keep them out of mis- 
but it is no use. And to go and set a bees’ bike 
scorn ? " i> m an — \ ” 

ing Coquet\aup shook his head disconsolately. His 

have ” ^corrigible, even he had been compelled 

The Whaup efforts to improve them, 
deed, his father was-^ ?” said Coquette, in a low voice, 
“ Y ou would have 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


141 


to Lord Earlshope. “ And it was he himself who did 
plan all that about the bees, and got them, and put 
them in a bag.” 

“ And then,” said Lord Earlshope, aloud, to the 
Whaup, “ the worst of it is that they go and blame you 
for what they do themselves; so that the whole district 
has got to dread you, whereas you have been trying to 
put down these pranks.” 

The Whaup turned towards Lord Earlshope, and 
slowly winked one of his eyes. By this time the Minis- 
ter had opened the other letter, and was perusing it in 
silence. It ran as follows : — 

“ Dear and Reverend Sir : It behooves me to accom- 
plish, or, in other words, to fulfil the promise which I, 
as an elder in your church, made to you, on your setting 
forth, to make you acquaint, or familiarize you with, the 
events and occurrences, the state of feeling, and general 
condition of this parish. Towards yourself, their spirit- 
ual governor, leader, and guide, the people do show- 
themselves most loyal and friendly, hoping you will con- 
tinue your voyages abroad -to the benefiting of your 
health, and that you may be saved from the perils of 
the waters, or, as I might have said, from the dangers 
that encompass them who go down to the sea in ships. 
As for the young man who is to take your pulpit, God 
willing, next Sabbath, report speaks well of his forbears;' 
but divers persons who have heard him in Arbroath, 
Greennock, and elsewhere, do fear that he is not severe 
enough in defining the lines and limits of doctrine, hold- 
ing rather to the admonitory side, which does not give 
his hearers sufficient chance, or opportunity, to use a 
less pagan word, to get at his own standpoint, which is 
a grave, or, it might be said with safety, a serious matter. 
For, whereas those ministers who have been long with 
us, and who have given proofs. of their doctrinal sound- 
ness, may be permitted to deal more with reproof and 
exhortation, it is for the younger generation of preachers 
to declare themselves clearly and sharply, that the church 
universal may not be ensnared and entrapped in the 


142 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


dark, there being, I grieve to hear, a dangerous leaven 
of looseness in the colleges and other places where 
young men congregate, or, as I might say, come to- 
gether. The only news of importance, besides this 
subject, which I have to communicate, is that Pensioner 
Lamont did once more, on the night of Tuesday, be- 
come most abnormal drunk, and did dance and play his 
fiddle in an uproarious and godless manner in the house 
of Mrs. Pettigrew ; and likewise that Lauchie, who is 
Vulgarly called P'ield Lauchie, Macin tyre’s wife’s bairn 
has been visited with the rash, which I hope will be 
taken as a sign of the warning finger of Providence, 
and cause the said Lauchie to give over, or, as I may 
say, abandon, his abominable and reckless conduct of 
walking to the town of Ardrossan every Sabbath day, 
and remaining there until the evening, I fear in no good 
company. This, dear and reverend Sir, from yours to 
command, “ Aineas Gillespie.” 

“ Good news from Airlie ? ” asked Lady Drum. 

“Yes — in a manner, yes,” replied the Minister, with 
dreamy eyes. It was a new thing for him to hear only 
the distant echo of his parish. 

“ Your boys seem to want their elder brother to con- 
trol them ? ” continued Lady Drum. 

“ Yes,” said the Minister. “ He prevails on them to 
leave the Manse quiet when he is there, though it may 
be only to lead them into greater mischief elsewhere. 
But they will have to look after themselves now for the 
rest of the autumn and winter.” 

« Why ? ” 

“ Because Tom is returning to his studies at Glas- 
gow,” observed the Minister. 

Coquette had been standing to watch some water-hens 
which, on the opposite bank, were scrambling about in 
the rushes, and she came up only in time to hear these 
last words. 

“ You are going to Glasgow ? ” she said to the Whaup. 

“Yes,” he replied, with some gravity. “ I mean to 
work hard this winter.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


M3 


“ And you will not be at Airlie all the time ? ” 

“ Does that distress you ? ” he asked. 

“Nobody but Leesiebess and her husband^ said Co 
quette, wistfully. “ It will not be pleasurable, the Manse, 
in the dark time of the winter, with the cold of the hiW. 
But I am glad you do go. You will work hard ; you 
will forget your games of mischief ; you wilkcome back 
more like a man ; and when you tell me you have studied 
well, and have got — what is it called? your certification, 

I will come out to meet you at the Manse, and I will have 
a wreath of laurel leaves for you, and you will be the 
great hero of the hour.” 

“ It is something to look forward to,” said the Whaup, 
almost sadly. “ And when I come back, will you be just 
the same Coquette ? as quiet and happy and pretty as 
you always are ? ” 

“ I do not know that I am quiet or happy or pretty, 
more than any one else,” said Coquette ; “ but I hope I 
shall always be the same to you, if you come back in one 
year — two years — ten years.” ' ' 

The Whaup did not reply to that, but he said to him- 
self : If she would only wait two years ! In two years 
time I would have worked to some purpose , and 1 would 
come home and ask her to marry me." 

All the rest of their walk along the pretty and pic- 
turesque bank he was restless and impatient in manner, 
speaking to nobody, thinking much. He cut with his 
stick at the rushes in the water or at the twigs of the 
hedge, as if they were the obstacles that lay in his way 
towards the beautiful gual he was dreaming of. At last 
he got into the yacht again and went below. When the 
others followed, some time after, they found him busy 
with his books 

Coquette went to him and said, — 

“ Why do you read ? Have I offended you ? Are 
you angry with me ? ” 

“ No, no,” he said, rising and going away ; “you are 
a deal too kind towards me, and towards all those people 
who don't understand how good you are.” 

Coquette stood by in blank astonishment ; she let 


144 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


him pass her, and go up on deck without uttering a word. 

By this time the Caroline was lying at anchor in Loch 
Crinan, and the afternoon was drawing on apace. The 
day had dulled somewhat, and far out among the western 
isles that lay along the horizon there was a faint still 
mist that made them shadowy and vague. Nevertheless 
the Whaup would have the skipper to give him the pin- 
nace for a run out in quest of the guillemot plumage 
that Coquette had desired ; and when, indeed, that young 
lady appeared on deck, she beheld the tiny boat, with its 
spritsail catching a light breeze, running far out beyond 
the sharp island rocks that crowd the entrance to the 
natural harbor. 

“ It is so small a boat to go out to sea,” she said to 
Lord Earlshope, who was following the pinnace with his 
glass. 

Meanwhile the Whaup had stationed himself at the 
prow of the small craft, steadying himself with his gun 
as she began to dip to the waves ; while all in front and 
around there opened out the great 'panorama of lochs 
and islands, between Luingand Scarba on the north, and 
the three dusky peaks of Jura in the south. The gloomy 
Sound of Corrievreckan was steeped in mist, and Dubh- 
chamus Point was scarcely visible ; but nearer at hand, 
in the middle of the gray and desolate sea, lay Maoile 
Rock and Ris an Valle, with Rui^ker and the Ledge, 
apparently under the shadow of the Paps. The bright 
little boat, despite her ballast and her cargo, went lightly 
as a feather over the waves ; and the Whaup, whose head 
was far too clear to grow giddy with the heave of the bay, 
kept his eyes alert There were plenty of birds about, 
the heron calling from out of the twilight that hung over 
the distant rocks, but in vain he. scanned the great heav- 
ing plain of gray waves for the special object of his quest. 
At last, however, they heard the cry of the birds down 
towards the south, and thither the small boat was directed. 
The sound came nearer and nearer, apparently there 
were dozens or hundreds of them all about, yet no feather 
of one of them could be seen. Then there was a swift 
lustle out beyond the boat, a dark moving line, rapidly 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


J 45 


crossing the waves, and the pink flame leaped from the 
two barrels of the Whaup* s gun. The pinnace was put 
about, and run towards a certain dark speck that was 
seen floating on the waves ; while at the same moment 
over all the west there broke a great and sudden fire of 
yellow, streaming down from the riven clouds upon the 
dusky gray of the sea. In this wild light the islands 
grew both dark and distant ; and near at hand there was 
a glare on the water that dazzled the eyes and made all 
things look fantastic and strange. It lasted but for a 
moment. The clouds slowly closed again, the west grew 
gray and cold, and over all the sea there fell the leaden- 
hued twilight again, while the bow of the boat, going 
this way and that in search of the dead bird, seemed to 
move forward into the waste of waters like the nose of a 
retriever. 

They picked up the bird ; there was but one. The 
Whaup was not satisfied. They could still hear the 
distant calling, and so they stood out a bit farther to sea, 
none of them, perhaps, noticing how rapidly the dark- 
ness was descending. 

“ There is a breeze coming,” said the man at the 
tiller, looking far down to the southwest. * 

TheWhaup saw nothing but a strangely black line along 
the misty horizon, a mere speck of deep purple. He was 
unwilling to go back then. Besides, both sea and sky 
were sufficiently calm ; the coming breeze would just 
suffice to run them back to Loch Crinan. 

“ We had better make for the yacht sir,” said the 
man nearest to him. “ It looks bad down there.” 

Unwilling as he was to give up, the Whaup perceived 
that the thin line of black had become a broader band. 
He was still looking far over the mystic plain of the 
waves towards that lurid streak, when he seemed to 
hear a strange sound in the aii. It was not a distant 
sound, but apparently a muttering as of voices all around 
and in front, hoarse and low and ominous. And while 
he still stood watching, with a curiosity which dulled all 
sense of fear, the slow widening of the blackness across 
the sea, a puff of wind smote his cheek, and brought 


146 A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 

the message that those troubled voices of the waves 
were deepening into a roar. Near the boat the sea was 
calm, and the darkening sky was quite still ; but it 
seemed as though a great circle were enclosing them, 
and that the advancing line of storm could be heard rag- 
ing in the darkness without being itself visible. In the 
intense stillness that reigned around them, this great, 
hoarse, deepening tumult of sounds seemed to find a 
strange echo ; and then, while the men were getting 
the boat put about and made ready for the squall, the 
water in the immediate neighborhood became power- 
fully agitated, a hissing of breaking waves was all 
around, and the first blow of the wind struck the boat 
as if with a hammer. 

By this time the sail had been brailed up, and the 
tempest that now came roaring along the black surface 
of the sea smote nothing but spars and oars as it hur- 
ried the pinnace along with it. Running before the 
wind, and plunging into the great hollows of the waves 
that seemed to be racing towards the shore, the light 
boat shipped but little water, except when a gust of 
wind drove the crest of a breaking wave across the 
rowers ; but there came torrents of rain sweeping along 
with the gale, and presently they found themselves shut 
out from sight of land by the driving clouds. The 
Whaup still kept outlook at the bow, but he had long 
ago laid by his gun. 

It was now a question of making the entrance to the 
Loch without running on the rocks with which it was 
studded ; arid as the boat rose and sank with the waves, 
and reeled and staggered under the tearing wind, the 
Whaup, dashing back the salt water from his eyes and 
mouth, and holding on to the prow, peered into the 
gloom ahead, and was near shouting joyously aloud from 
the mere excitement and madness of the chase. It was 
a race with the waves, and the pinnace rolled and stag- 
gered down in a drunken fashion into hugh black depths, 
only to rise clear again on the hissing masses of foam ; 
while wind and water alike, the black and riven sky, the 
plunging and foaming sea, and the great roaring gusts 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


U7 


of the gale that came tearing up from the south, seemed 
sweeping onward for those dusky and jagged rocks which 
formed the nearest line of land. 

Coquette was standing on deck, her one small hand 
clinging to the cold steel shrouds, while her face, terror- 
stricken and anxious, was fixed on the blackness of the 
storm that raged outside the troubled stillness of the 
harbor. Lord Earlshope begged her to go below from 
the fierce torrents of the rain, and when she paid no 
heed to him, he brought a heavy mantle, and covered 
her with it from head to foot. She spoke not a word ; 
and only trembled slightly when the wind came in with 
a fierce cry from that angry warring of the elements 
that was going on beyond the islands. 

The darkness fell fast, and yet as far as they could 
see there was no speck of a boat coming in from the wild 
and moving waste of gray. To the girl standing there 
and gazing out it seemed that the horizon of the other 
world, that mystic margin on which, in calmer moments, 
we seem to see the phantoms of those who have been 
taken from us passing in a mournful procession, speech- 
less and cold-eyed, giving to us no sign of recognition, 
had come close and near, and might have withdrawn be- 
hind its shadowy folds all the traces of life which the 
sea held. Could it be that the black pall of death had 
fallen just beyond those gloomy islands, and hidden for- 
ever from mortal eyes that handful of anxious men who 
had lately been struggling towards the shore ? Was the 
bright young life that she had grown familiar with, and 
almost learned to love, now snatched away without one 
mute pressure of the hand to say farewell ? She stood 
there as if in a dream, and the things that passed before 
her eyes had become spectral and ghastly. She scarcely 
knew that she heard voices. She clung to the steel 
ropes, and there was something like a faint “ hurrah ! ” 
wafted in with the tumult of the sea, and then the vision 
of a face gleaming red and joyous with the salt spray 
and the rain, and then she knew that she was sinking, 
with a sound as of the sea closing over her head. 


148 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


CHAPTER XXL 

COQUETTE IS TROUBLED. 

The gale blew hard all that evening, but towards 
midnight the sky cleared, and the large white moon rose 
wild and swift into the luminous violet vault, that was 
still crossed by ragged streaks of gray cloud hurrying 
over from the sea. All along the dark islands the 
mournful wash of the waves could be heard ; and here, 
in the quiet of the bay, the wind brought a fresh and 
salt flavor with it, as it blew in gusts about, and swept 
onward to stir the birches and brackens of the hills. The 
Whaup sat up on deck with Lord Earlshope, who was 
smoking, and spoke in whispers, for all was quiet below. 

“ Y ou will get up to Oban to-morrow ? ” asked the 
Whaup, after some profound meditation. 

“ I hope so,” said Lord Earlshope. 

“I shall leave you then and go back by coach or 
steamer.” 

“ Has your adventure of this afternoon frightened 
you?” 

“ Faith, no ! My only fright was when my cousin 
fainted ; and I wished, when I saw that, that every guil- 
lemot that ever lived was at the bottom of the sea. But 
I am getting sick of idleness.” 

Lord Earlshope laughed. 

“You may laugh,” said the Whaup, “but it is true. 
You have earned the right to be idle, because you are a 
man. For a young fellow like me, with all the world 
before him, it is miserable to be dawdling away time, 
you know.” 

“ I quite agree with you,” said his companion ; “ but 
it seems to me this discovery has come to you rather 
suddenly.” 

“ All the more reason,” returned the Whaup, with 


A DAUGHTER OP HE TH. 


H9 

confidence, “ that it should be acted upon at once. I am 
going to Glasgow. I shall live in lodgings with some 
fellows I know, and work up my studies for the next 
session. There is a tremendous deal of work in me, al- 
though you might not think it, and I may not see Airlie 
for two years.” 

“ Why so ? ” 

“ Because then I shall be nearer twenty-one than 
twenty.” 

“ And what will you do then ? ” 

“ What shall I do then ? Who knows ? ” said the 
Whaup, absently. 

Next morning the weather was fine, and the wind had 
calmed. The sea was of a troubled, dark, and shining 
blue ; and the far hills of the islands were of a soft and 
velvet-like brown, with here and there a tinge of red or 
of gray. The Caroline was soon got under way, and 
began to open out the successive headlands and bays as 
; she stood away towards the north. 

Coquette came on deck, and looked out on the sea 
with an involuntary shudder. Then she turned, to find 
the Whaup regarding her with rather a serious and 
thoughtful look. 

“ Ah, you wicked boy, to make me so fearful yester- 
day evening ! ” she said 

“ But you ar.e quite well this morning ? ” he asked, 
anxiously. 

“ Oh, yes, I am quite well,” she said ; and the bright- 
ness of her face and of her soft dark eyes was sufficient 
evidence. 

“And I got you the guillemot after all,” said the 
Whaup, with some pride. “ One of the sailors is prepar- 
ing both the breast and the pinions for you, and you can 
wear either you like.” 

“ For your sake, when you are away in Glasgow,” she 
said, with a smile. “ I did hear what you said last night 
to Lord Earlshope. I could not sleep with thinking of 
the black water, and the wind, and the cry of the waves. 
And will you go away from us now altogether ? ” 

“ I must go away sooner or later,” said the Whaup. 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


I S° 

“But it is a little time until we all go back. Your 
father, he cannot remain long.” 

“ But I have become restless,” said the Whaup, with 
some impatience. 

“ And you are anxious to go away ? ” said Coquette. • 
“ It is no compliment to us ; but no, I will not speak like % 
that to you. I do think you are right to go. I will hear s, 
of you in Glasgow ; I will think of you every day ; and 
you will work hard, just as if I could see you and praise J 
you for doing it. Then, you know, some day a long way ^ 
off, it may be a rainy morning at Airlie, or perhaps even , 
a bright day, and we shall see you come driving up in : 
the dog-cart ” 

“Just as you came driving up a few months ago. ;j 
Does it not seen a long time since then ? ” 

“ Yes, a long time,” said Coquette ; “but I do think 
this is the best part of it.” 

The attention of everybody on deck was at this 
moment directed to the strange currents through which 
the Caroline had now to force herself, long stretches and 
whirls in an almost smooth sea, with here and there a 
boiling-up 'into a miniature whirlpool of the circling 
waters. These powerful eddies caught the bow of the 
boat, and swung it this way or that with a force which 
threatened to jibe the sails ; while now and again she 
would come to a dead stop, as though the sea were of 
lead. And far away on their left, between the misty 
hills of Jura and Scarba, lay the treacherous Corriev- 
reckan, dreaded of fishermen, whose wild legends seem 
scarcely in consonance with the apparent quietude of 
those long and curling tides. But here at hand there 
was sufficient evidence of the power of those glassy 
swirls, the outline of which was marked with streaks of 
foam. Slowly but steadily the Caroline made head 
through those fierce currents, drawing away from the still 
breadth of, Loch Shuna, and getting further into Scarba 
Sound, with the desolate island of Luing on her right. 
How strangely still lay the long, lone bays,, and the soli- 
tary stretches of shore in the sunlight ! There was not 
even a fisherman’s boat to be seen along those bleak 


A DA UGHTER OF HE TH. x 5 ! 

coasts, that seemed to have grown gray and mournful 
with looking out on the sadness of the sea. There was 
no sign of life abroad but the hovering in mid-air of the 
white gannet, or the far and rapid flight of a string of 
wild ducks sinking- down towards the southern horizon. 
But as they drew near the mouth of Scarba Sound, with 
the great stretch of Loch Linnhe opening up before 
them, and the mighty shoulders of the Mull mountains 
lying faint and gray in the northwest, the solitude grew 
less absolute. Here and there a boat became visible. 
They passed the Slate, and drew near the quarries of 
Easdale ; while a long streak of smoke beyond told them 
that the great steamer from the North was coming down 
with her cargo of English tourists from the moors and 
lochs of Inverness. 

“ We shrill get the waves of that dreadful steamer 
as she passes/’ said Lady Drum. 

“ Why, you don’t know what a good sailor you are,” 
said Lord EarLhope. “ We had bigger waves in coming 
into Lochfyhe, and you were quite comfortable.” 

“To tell the truth, I must praise the Caroline for 
being the most humane and delightful of yachts,” said 
Lady Drum. “ One would think, to judge by the way 
in which she avoids those frisky and unpleasant tricks 
of many boats, that she was a grave md elderly person 
like myself, instead of being a y6ang thing like Miss 
Cassilis here.” 

“ I see a very good opening for a compliment, ’’ob- 
served the Whaup, looking from Lord Earlshope to his 
father, but neither took the hint ; and so the Carolme 
sped on her way, and the great steamer, with its throb- 
bing paddles and its volumes of smoke, came out from 
Easdale Bay and bore down upon them. 

They were all on deck when the steamer passed ; 
and doubtless the people who crowded the larger vessel 
regarded the little group in the stern of the graceful, 
white-sailed yacht as sufficiently picturesque, the tall and 
gray-haired lady, who had her hand inside the arm of 
the young girl ; the elderly Minister, looking grave and 
dignified; Lord Earlshope, seated carelessly on one of 


' 5 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


the hatchways ; the Whaup, waving a handkerchief in 
reply to more than ©ne signal of the same kind. 

“To-morrow morning/’ said the Whaup to Lady 
Drum, “ I shall be on board that steamer, going straight 
down for Crinan ; and you — you will be turning towards 
Skye, I suppose, or Staffa, or Lewis ? ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” said his father. 

u Has nobody told you ? I am going back to Airlie 
to-morrow, and on to Glasgpw, to prepare for the classes. 
I have had enough idling.” 

“ I am glad to hear it/’ said the Minister, in a tone 
which did not betray any strong assurance that the 
Whaup was to be trusted in these bis new resolves. 

But Coquette believed him. All the rest of that 
day, as the Caroline glided through the dark-blue plain 
of the waves, on past Ardencaple and Barnacaryn, and 
the steep hills above Loch Feochan, until she had got 
through the Sound of Kerrara, and was nearing the 
calm expanse of Oban Bay, the Whaup perceived that 
his cousin was almost elaborately kind and attentive to 
him, and far more serious and thoughtful than was her 
wont. He himself was a trifle depressed. Having defi- 
nitely stated his intentions, he would not show weak- 
ness at the last moment, and draw back from his prom- 
ised word ; but it was with rather a heavy heart that he 
went below to gather together his books and put them 
in order for the last time on board. 

“ I think I shall sleep to-night on shore,” said he, 
when he reappeared. .. 

“ Why ? ” asked Coquette. 

“ Because I don’t wish to have you all up by seven 
to-morrow morning. The boat goes at eight.” 

“ And must we not see you off, and say good-bye ? ” 

“ What’s the use ? ” said the Whaup. 

Coquette put her hand on his arm, and said, rather 
shyly,— _ 

“ I think you would rather come with us. Why not 
do that ? It is very sad and miserable your going all 
away back by yourself, and I am sorry to think of it. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE 153 

far more for you than if it were for myself. It is very 
hard lines.’’ 

The Whaup laughed in spite of his wretchedness. 

“ I told you ever so long ago not to say that,” he 
said, “and you promised not to forget. Never mind. 
It’s very good of you to concern yourself about me, but 
I mean to go to-morrow morning. And look there ! — 
there is Oban.” 

“ I do hate the place ! ” said Coquette, petulantly. 

She would scarcely look at the semicircle of white 
houses stretching around the blue bay, nor yet at the hills 
and the villas upon them, nor yet at the brown and deso- 
late old castle built high on the rocks beyond. 

“ It is a town,” she said, “ that row of bare and ugly 
houses, and the hotels and shops. It is not fit for these 
Highlands mountains ; it shames them to look down on 
it — it is so — so dirty-white and shabby.” 

“ What ails ye at the town ?” said Lady Drum, who 
did not like to hear her favorite Oban disparaged. 

“ A little while ago you would have found Oban quite 
a grand place,” said Lord Earlshope, “ quite a gay and 
fashionable place.” 

“Fashionable ! ” said Coquette, with that slight eleva- 
tion of the eyebrows and the almost imperceptible shrug 
to which they had all got accustomed. “Fashionable? 
Perhaps. It is a good promenade before the grocers, 
shops, and do the ladies who make the fashions live in 
those dirty-white houses ? What is that they say ? Qui 
rTest pas difficile , trouve bientot tin asile .” 

‘<You know the other French proverb?” said Lord 
Earlshope, “ Jeune femme , pain tendre , et bois veit> 
mettent la maison en desert .” 

“ That is possible,” said Coquette, “ but it is not 
fashion. You should see Biarritz, Lady Drum, with its 
sands, and the people, and the music, and the Bay of 
Biscay, and the^ Spanish mountains not far. Even I 
think our little Le Croisic better, where mamma, and I 
lived at the Etablissemefit. But as for this town here, 
if it more pleasant-looking than Ardrossan, I will 
blow mer tight ! ” 


DAUGHTER OF HETH.' 

The Whaup shrieked with laughter, and Coquette 
looked puzzled, knowing she had made some dreadful 
blunder, but not very certain what it was. Lady Drum 
rescued her from confusion by carrying her off to dress 
for dinner, and explained to her in their common state- 
room that she must be careful not to repeat colloquial- 
isms which she had overheard without being quite sure 
of their propriety. Indeed, when the meaning of the 
phrase was explained to her, she laughed as much as 
the Whaup had done, and entered the saloon, where the 
gentlemen were waiting, with a conscious look on her' 
face which considerably heightened its color. 

“ It was you to blame,” she said to the Whaup. “ I 
did often hear you say that.” 

“ Propria qua maribusC said he, and they sat down 
to dinner. 

It was felt to be a farewell celebration. The Whaup 
looked grave and determined, as if he feared he would 
be moved from his resolution. Coquette., stole furtive 
glances at him, and wondered what she could give him 
to take with him as a keepsake. The Minister fur- 
nished him with directions about certain things to be 
done at Airlie ; Lady Drum made him promise to come 
and see her when she went to Glasgow ; and Lord 
Earlshope persuaded him to remain on board that night, 
and go ashore in the morning. 

When they went on deck after dinner, it was a beau- 
tiful clear night, with the moonlight throwing a great 
flood of silver across the bay from over the dusky island 
of Kerrara. The windows of the houses on shore were 
burning yellow in this cold white radiance ; and here and 
there in the bay the green or red lights of a dark-hulled 
boat flickered on the smooth water beneath. Over the 
town the great shoulders of the hills were touched with 
a pale and sombre gray, but a keener light shone along 
the white fronts of the houses close by the shore ; while 
nearer at hand it touched the masts and spars of the 
various boats, and threw, black shadows on the white 
deck of the Caroline when any one moved across the 
cold steel-blue glare. 



< 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TFT. 

“ Where is Miss Cassilis ? ” said Lady Drum, when 
she had taken her accustomed seat. 

At the same moment they heard the first soft notes 
of the harmonium, and presently there rose into the still 
night the clear and sweet and melancholy cadenceof Men- 
delssohn’s gondola song. The empty silence of the bay 
seemed to grow full of this rich and harmonious music, 
until one scarcely knew that the sounds were coming from 
the open cabin skylight which gleamed an oblong patch 
of yellow fire in the dusk. The night seemed to be as 
full of music as of moonlight, it was in the air all around, 
a part of the luminous loveliness of the sky, and scarcely 
to be distinguished from the lapping of the water along 
the side of the boat. Far away there was a murmur of 
the se& upon the shores of Kerrara ; but that, too, be- 
came part of the sweet and distant and sad music that 
they heard. But suddenly she changed the key, and 
with sharp and powerful chords struck out the proud and 
ringing melody of “ Drumclog.” The old Scotch psalm- 
tune stirred the Whaup, as a trumpet might stir the 
heart of a dragoon. He rose to his feet, and drew a 
long breath, as if the plaintive gondola-music had been 
stifling him. 

“ What a grand tune that ‘ Drumclog ’ is,” he said. 
“ It means business. I dare say the old troopers sang it 
with their teeth set hard, and their hand on their musket- 
barrels. But did you ever hear it played like that ? ” 

“It is wonderful, wonderful!” said the Minister, 
and his sad gray eyes were fixed upon the far white sea, 
and the shadows of the lonely island. 

You should have seen the Whaup the next morning, 
bustling about with a determined air, and making from 
time to time, a feeble effort to whistle. Coquette had 
been up before any one on board, and now sat, mute 
and pale, watching his preparations. Sometimes she 
turned to look towards the quay, where the vessels lay 
nnaer the ruddy and misty sunlight of the autumn 
morning. 

Then the great steamer came around the point. The 


A daughter of he til 


< 5 6 

Whaup jumped into the pinnace, after having shaken 
hands with everybody, and the boat was pushed off. 

“ Stop a moment,” said Coquette, “ I do wish to go 
with you to the steamer.” 

So she, also, got into the small boat ; and together 
they went in to the quay, and got ashore. The steamer 
arrived, and the Whaup, still trying at times to whistle 
got on board. The first bell was rung. 

“ Good-bye,” said Coquette, holding one of his hands 
in both of hers. “ You will write to me often, often ; 
and when I go back to Airlie I will write to you every 
week, and tell you what is going on with all the people, 
even with Leesibess also. And I will go to see you at 
Glasgow, if you will not come to Airlie before you have 
become a great man.” 

A few minutes afterwards the Whaup was waving 
his handkerchief to her as the steamer steamed away 
down by Kerrara, and Coquette stood on the quay, look- 
ing wistfully after the boat, even until the trailing cloud 
of smoke from the funnel had become a luminous brown 
in the morning sunlight. 


CHAPTER XXII. 

ON THE SEA-SHORE. 

“ I wish td speak to you a great secret,” said Co- 
quette to Lord Earlshope that morning, “ when we shall 
have the chance. It is very important.” 

“ I shall remember to make the chance,” said he, 
“ especially as Lady Drum wants to go round and see 
Dunstaffnage. You must come with us.” 

The Minister preferred to remain. in the yacht. The 
fact is, he was composing a sermon on the judgment that 
befel Jonah, and was engaged in painting a picture of 


A DAL GH TER OF IIE TH. 


f *57 


the storm, with powerful colors borrowed from his ex- 
periences in Crinan Bay. He was very busy with the 
task, for he hoped to be able to preach the sermon next 
day, being Sunday, to the small congregation on board. 
So it was that the others started without him, and drove 
over in a hired trap by the road which leads past the 
pretty Locbaw. In time they arrived at Dunstaffnage, 
and made their way on to the rocks which there rise over 
the blue sea, and look across to the far mountains of 
Lismore and Morven and Mull 

Lady Drum was a brisk and active woman for her 
age, but she did not care to exert herself unnecessarily. 
When they had gone up aad looked at the ruins of the 
| old castle, when they had passed through the small wood, 
and reached the line of alternate rock and beach fronting 
I the sea, she placed herself upon an elevated peak, and 
allowed the young folks to scramble down to the white 
! shingle below. There she saw them both sit down on 
the beach, Lord Earlshope beginning to pitch pebbles 
i carelessly into the sea. She could hear the murmur of 
: their talk, too, but could not distinguish what they said. 

| Apparently there was nothing very important engag- 
] ing their attention, for they did not even look at each 
other, and Lord Earlshope was evidently more inter- 
ested in- trying to hit apiece of seaweed which the tide 
had drifted in to the shore. 

“ My secret is this.” said Coquette. “ Do you know 
that papa and mamma did leave me a good deal of 
money ? ” 

“ I was not aware of it,” said Lord Earlshope, mak- 
ing another effort to hit the sea-weed. 

“ Oh, I am very rich, that is to say, not what you 
English would call rich, but rich in my country. Yet I 
cannot use the money. What good is it to me ? Mamma 
gave me more jewelry than I need, what am I to do with 
my money ? ” 

“ I don’t know much about ladies’ expenses,” said 
Lord Earlshope. “ But if you want to get rid of this 
burden of wealth, why not keep a yacht, or buy a theatre, 
or ” 

I 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


158 

“No, no, no,” she said. “You do not understand. 

I mean I have nothing to do with my money for myself. 
Now, here is my cousin who goes to Glasgow to live by 
himself in lodgings, perhaps not very pleasant. His fa- 
ther is not rich. He must work hard ; and youf north- 
ern winters are so cold. Bien ! How I am to give 
him money ? ” 

“That is the problem, is it ? ” said Lord Earlshope. 
“ I might have guessed you did not wish to spend the 
money on yourself. Well, I don’t know. I give it up. 
If he were a boy, you see, you might send him a .£ 20 
note now and again, which most of us have found very 
acceptable at college. But you would insult your cousin 
if you sent him money bluntly like that. Besides, you 
would destroy the picturesqueness of his position. Our 
Scotch colleges are sacred to the poor student ; they are 
not seminaries for the teaching of extravagance and 
good manners, like the English universities.’’ 

“ Then you cannot help me ? ” said Coquette. 

“ Ob, there are a hundred indirect ways in which 
you could be of service to him ; but you must be care- 
ful, and consult with Lady Drum** who is going to 
Glasgow, and will probably see him there. How for- 
tunate you are to have no care whatever on your mind 
but the thought of how to do other people good. You 
are never anxious about yourself ; you seem to be sur- 
rounded by a sort of halo of comfort and satisfaction ; 
and annoyances that strike against the charmed circle 
are blunted and fall to the ground.” 

“ That is a very nice and pretty speech,” said Co- 
quette, with a smile. “ I will soon believe the English 
are not a barbarous nation if you make such long 
compliments.” 

“ I wonder,” said Lord Earlshope, looking away 
over the sea,^and apparently almost talking to himself, 

“ whether, if I were to tell you another secret, it would 
annoy you in the least. I do not think it would. How 
cpuld it matter to you ? ”§F 

“ But what is it ? ” said Coquette. 

“ Suppose,” said he, throwing another pebble at the.. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


*59 


bit of seaweed, “ that I were to tell you, first, that you 
had no need to be alarmed, that I did- not mean to fright 
en you with a proposal, or any nonsense of that kind ; 
and then tell you that I had fallen in love with you ? 
Suppose I were to do that, and tell, you the history of 
the thing, it would not trouble you in the least, would 
it ? Why should it, indeed ? You are not responsible; 
you are not affected, by the catastrophe , you might be 
curious to know more about - it, even, as something to 
pass the time.” 

He spoke with the most absolute indifference, and 
so preoccupied was he that he did not even look at his 
companion. The first start of surprise had given way 
to a mute and apprehensive fear ; her face was quite 
pale, and she did not know that her two hands were tightly 
clasped in her lap, as if to keep them from trembling. 

“ Such is the fact, however,” he continued, just as 
rf he were describing to her some event of yesterday, 
of which he had been an interested spectator. “ You 
cannot be nearly so surprised as I am ; indeed, I don’t 
suppose you would think anything about it, unless you 
considered it as a misfortune which has happened to 
me, and then you will, I hope without laughing, give me 
the benefit of your sympathy. Yet I am not very 
wretched, you see ; and you — you are no more affected 
by it than if you were the moon, and I, according to 
the Eastern saying, one of the hundred streams looking 
up to you. I am afraid I have been experimenting on 
myself, and deserve the blow that has fallen. I have 
been flying my kite too near the thunder-cloud ; and 
what business had a man of my age with a kite ? ” 

He shrugged his shoulders, quite without bitterness 
of spirit. It was a misfortune, and to be accepted. 

“ I am very sorry,” she said, in a low voice. 

“No! — why sorry ?” he said. “ I fancied I was 
more philosophical than I am. I think my first senti- 
ment towards you was merely idle curiosity. I wished 
to see how so rare an exotic would flourish when trans- 
planted to our bleak Scotch moors. Then yon allowed 
me to make your acquaintance ; and I believed myself 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


1 60 

filled with the most paternal solicitude about your wel- 
fare. Sometimes I had doubts, sometimes I made ex- 
periments to solve them. If I were to tell you how I 
fought against the certainty that I had become the 
victim of an affection foolish, hopeless, unreasoning, 
you would, perhaps, understand why I think it better 
to tell you frankly so much as I have done, by way of 
explanation. You might also be amused, perhaps, if 
you cared for recondite studies. To me it has been very 
odd to find that, after I had dissected every sensation 
and analyzed every scrap of emotion I experienced, 
another being has sprung into existence by the very 
side of my lecture-table. That other being is also, I 
looking with contempt at my own anatomical experi- 
ment. And there is yet a third I, now talking to you, 
who looks as a spectator upon both the anatomist and 
the spectral being who has escaped his knife. Do you 
understand all this ? ” 

A stone fell close beside them, and Coquette's heart 
leaped up at the sound. It had been pitched down by 
Lady Drum, as a signal that she was impatient. 

“ Yes, I understand it all,” said Coquette, still in 
the same ipw voice ; “ but it is very dreadful.” 

“ Then it is not amusing,” said Lord Earlshope, 
offering his hand to raise her up. “ I beg your pardon 
for boring you with a psychological conundrum. You 
are not vexed about my having mentioned it at all ? ” 

“ Oh, no,” said Coquette ; but the beach and the sea 
and the far mountains seemed insecure and wavering, 
and she would fain have had Lady Drum’s arm to lean 
upon. 

“ How co^ild you be vexed, indeed, except by the 
dulness of' the story ? ” said Lord Earlshope cheerfully. 
“You may consider, if you like, that you never heard 
my confession. It cannot affect you ; nor need it, indeed, 
in the slightest degree affect our relations with each 
o-ther. Do you agree with me ? ” 

Oui, yes, I mean ; it will be quite the same between 
us as before.” said Coquette. 

“You will not find me torture you with the jealous- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


161 

ies of a lover. I shall not scowl when you write a letter 
without showing m»e the address. I shall not even be 
angry if you enclose flowers in it. We shall be to each 
other, I hope, the friends we have always been, until I 
have quite recovered my equanimity. And you will not 
make me the butt of your ridicule during the process ?. ” 

“ I shall always be very sorry that this has happened,” 
said Coquette. 

“ Why, of course,” said her companion. “ Didn’t I 
say so? You are sorry, because it is my misfortune. 
Had it been your own, you would not have cared. In 
return, when you fall in love, perhaps with your hand- 
some cousin, let us say, who means, I know, to come 
back crowned with laurels in order to win for himself a 
pretty wife somewhere down in Ayrshire, I will do my 
best to become sorry for you. But then, in your case, 
why should anybody be sorry ? To fall in love is not 
always a misfortune, at least, I hope there are some who 
do not find it so.” 

For the first time he spoke sadly, and the expression 
of his face conveyed that he was thinking of some dis- 
tant time. When Coquette and her companion rejoined 
Lady Drum they were both unusually silent. As for the 
young girl, indeed, she was anxious to get once more 
into the wagonette, and have the horses’ heads turned 
towards Oban. In the rumble of the wheels along the 
road there was not much occasion to talk ; and very 
little indeed of the beautiful scenery, on that calm and 
bright autumn morning, did Coquette see as they passed 
over the neck of land towards Qban Bay. 


162 


A DAUGHTER OF IJETH. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

COQUETTE begins to fear. 

“ Uncle,” said Coquette, directly they had returned 
to the yacht, “ when shall we go back to Airlie ? ” 

The Minister looked up in a surprised and dazed way 
from his manuscripts and said, — 

“ Go back ? yes, I have been thinking of that too, 
for it is not fitting that one shoukl be away from the 
duties to which one has been called. But you, don’t 
.you understand that it is for your sake that we are here ? 
Are you so much better ? What does Lady Drum say ? ” 

The Minister had now so far brought himself back 
from the sermon on Jonah that he could attentively scan 
his niece’s face. 

“ Why,” said he, “ you are more pale, more languid, 
now than I have seen you for many days. Will not a 
little more of the sea air make you feel strong ? ” 

“ I am not unwell,” said Coquette, with the same air 
of cold restraint ; “ but if it will please you to go farther 
with the boat, then I will go too.” 

So she went away to her own cabin, fearing to go on 
deck and meet Lord Earlshope. In their common state- 
room she encountered Lady Drum. 

“ You two were deeply occupied,” she said, with a 
grave and kindly smile, “ when ye foregathered on the 
beach.” 

“Yes,” said Coquette, with an anxious haste, “I did 
speak to Lord Earlshope about my cousin in Glasgow.” 

“Itmus-t have been an interesting subject, for ye 
never took your eyes from watching the toe of your 
boot, which was peeping from under your dress : and he, 
I am sure, would not have noticed a man-of-war had it 
come around the point. Dear, dear me ! I willna scold 
you ; but to come so soon, ye know, after your poor 
cousin left ye ” 

A 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH 


163 

“ No, no, no ! ” said Coquette, hurriedly, as she took 
her friend’s hand in hers ; “ you must not talk like that. 
You do not know that I have just been to my uncle to 
ask him to go home.” 

Lady Drum began to look more serious. She had 
been bantering the young girl in that fashion which most 
elderly people love, but she had no idea that she was ac- 
tually hitting the mark. This sudden wish on the part 
of Coquette to return to Airlie, what could it mean ? 
Considerably startled, the old lady saw for the first time 
that there was real danger ahead ; and she asked Coquette 
to sit down and have a talk with her, in a voice so solemn 
that Coquette was alarmed, and refused. 

“ No,” she said, “ I will not talk. It is nothing. You 
imagine more than is true. All that I wish is to leave 
this voyage when it pleases you and my uncle.” 

But Lady Drum was not to be gainsaid ; she felt it 
to be her duty to warn Coquette. Lord Earlshope, she 
said, was a man whom it was necessary to understand. 
He had been accustomed to luxurious indolence all his 
days, and might drift into a position which would com- 
promise more than himself. He had a dangerous habit 
of regarding himself as a study, ^nd experimenting on 
himself, without reflecting what others might suffer. 
Then, again, he had so resolutely avoided introductions 
to rich £nd charming young ladies who had visited Cas- 
tle Cawmil, that she — Lady Drum, was convinced he had 
some rooted aversion to the consideration of marriage, 
that he would never marry. 

“ Have ye never heard him talk about marriage, and 
the mistakes that young men make ? He is as bitter 
about that as if he was an old man of sixty, or as if he 
had made a foolish marriage himself. Perhaps he has,” 
she continued, with a smile ; “ but his success in con- 
cealing it all these years must be a credit to him.” 

“All that does not concern me,” said Coquette, with 
a sort of piteous deprecation in her tone. “ Why do you 
speak to me about Lord Earlshope’s marriage ? I do 
not care if he has been in fifty marriages.” 

“ Will you tell me why you are suddenly anxious to 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


164 

go home ? ” said Lady Drum,, bending her grave and 
kind eyes upon the girl. 

“ I have told you,” said Coquette, with a touch of 
hauteur in her voice, as she turned abruptly away and 
walked out. 

She stood at the foot of the companion-steps. 
Which way should she choose ? Overhead she heard 
Lord Earlshope talking to the skipper, who was getting 
the yacht under canvas to resume the voyage. In the 
saloon sat her uncle, deep in the intricacies of Scotch 
theology. Behind her was the elderly lady from whom 
she had just broken away with a gesture of indignant 
pride. For a minute or two she remained irresolute, 
though the firmness of her lips showed that she was still 
smarting from what she had considered an unwarrantable 
interference. Then she went gently back to the state- 
room door, opened it, walked over to where Lady Drum 
sat, and knelt down penitently and put her head in her 
lap. 

“ I hope you are not angry or offended with me,” she 
said, in a low voice. “ I am very sorry. I would tell 
you what you ask, but it is not my secret, Lady Drum, I 
must not, indeed, telltyou. It is because you are so good 
a friend that you ask ; but — but — but it is no matter ; 
and will you help me to go back soon to Airlie ? ” 

“ Help you ? — yes, I will,” said Lady Drum, in the 
same kindly way, although it was but natural she should 
feel a little hurt at having her curiosity baffled. She put 
her hand in a gracious and stately fashion on the yopng 
girl’s head, and said; “You have a riffljt to keep your 
own secrets if you choose ; far be it from me to ask you 
to give them up. But should you want to confide in a 
person who has some experience o’ life, and is anxious 
to do ye every service, you have but to come to me.” 

“ Oh, I am sure of that,” said Coquette, gratefully. 
“ I will be as your own daughter to you.” 

“ And about this going back,” continued Lady Drum. 
“ It would look strange to turn at this point, just after 
letting your cousin go home by himself. We shall hae 
the best part 0’ the thing over in a couple o’ days, when 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. ^5 

we get up to Skye ; and then, if ye like, we can go back 
by the steamer.” 

“ Two more days ! ” said Coquette, almost wildly, as 
she started to her feet — “ two more days ! How can I 
bear ” 

She caught herself up, and was silent. 

“ There is something in all this that ye keep back,” 
said Lady Drum. “ I dinna blame ye ; but when it suits 
ye to be more frank wi’ me ye will no find yourself wi* 
a backward friend. Now we will go upon the deck and 
see what’s to the fore.” 

Coquette was glad fo go on deck under this safe-con- 
duct. Yet what had she to fear ? Lord Earlshope had 
made a certain communication to her with the obvious 
belief that she would treat it as a matter of no impor- 
tance to herself. Was she not, according to his own ac- 
count, surrounded by a halo of self-content which made 
her independent of the troubles which afflicted others ? 

“ But I am not selfish,” she had bitterly thought to 
herself, as they were driving back to Oban. “ Why 
should he think I have no more feeling than a statue or 
a picture ? Is it that the people of this country do not 
understand it if you are comfortabl# and careless for the 
moment ? ” 

When they now went on deck, Lord Earlshope came 
forward as though he had utterly forgotten that conver- 
sation on the beach at Dunstaffnage, and placed Coquette 
and her companion in a position so that they could 
see the bay and the houses, and the rocks of Dunolly, 
which they were now leaving behind. Coquette bade 
good-bye to Oban with but little regret. Perhaps she 
was chiefly thinking that in a few minutes they would 
come in sight of that curved indentation of the coast 
which would remind Lord Earlshope of what had oc- 
curred there. And, indeed, as they opened out Loch 
Etive, and stood over towards the Sound of Mull, with 
the dark mountains of Appin in the north, and the blue 
waters of the Atlantic stretching far into the south, they 
actually came in sight of those tiny bays which they had 
visited in the morning. 


!66 A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 

“ Do you recognize the place ? ” asked Lord Earls- 
hope, carelessly, of Lady Drum. 

Then he turned to Coquette, and bade her admire 
the beautiful and soft colors of the Morven mountains, 
where the sunlight brought out the warm tints of the 
rusty breckan and the heather, through the pearly gray 
of the mist and the heat. Very lovely, too, were the 
hills of Lismore and Lome, dappled with cloud-shadows 
moving across their great shoulders and deep valleys, 
while over on their left rose the darker mountains of 
Mull, bare and blue and solitary. All around them, in- 
deed, lay this great panorama of jagged mountain and 
smoother hill, with dark stretches of forest here and 
there, and at their, base the great and breezy plain of 
the sea, with its white line of foam along the rocks, and 
the monotonous cry of its breaking waves. 

“ It is very lonely,” said Coquette, looking wistfully 
around the far shores. “ I do not see any sign of life 
among those mountains or near the sea.” 

“ You would not enjoy a long visit to these places,” 
said Lord Earlshope, with a smile. “ I imagine that the 
constant sight of the loneliness of the mountains would 
make you miserable. ^feDoes not the sea look sad to you ? 
I have fancied I noticed a sense of relief on your face 
when we have settled down in the evening to a comfort- 
able chatter in the cabin, and have shut out for the night 
the sea and the solitary hills and the sky.” 

She did not answer, nor could she understand how 
he spoke to her thus, with absolute freedom of tone and 
manner. Had she dreamed all that had happened under 
the ruined walls of Dunstaffnage ? She only knew that 
he was looking at her with his accustomed look of min- 
gled curiosity and interest, and that he was, as usual, 
telling her of his speculations as regarded herself. Or 
was he only assuming this ease of manner to dissipate 
her fears and restore their old relations ? Was he only 
feigning indifference, in order to remove her constraint ? 

It was not until the afternoon, when they had gone 
up through the Sound of Mull, and were drawing near 
to their anchorage in Tobermory Bay, that he had an 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


167 

opportunity of speaking to her alone. Lady Drum had 
gone below, and Coquette suddenly found herself de- 
fenceless. 

“ Come, Miss Cassilis,” he said, “ have it out with me 
now. You have been avoiding me all day, to punish me 
for my foolish disclosure of this morning. Is that the 
case ? Did I commit a blunder ? If I did, you must 
pardon me ; I did not fancy you would have wasted a 
second thought on the matter. And, indeed, I cannot 
afford to have you vexed by my indiscretion ; it is not 
natural for you to look vexed.” 

“ If I am vexed,” she said, looking down, and yet 
speaking rather warmly, “ it is to hear you speak of me 
so. You do seem to think me incapable of caring for 
any one but myself ; you think I should not be human ; not 
interested in my friends, but always thinking of myself ; 
always pleased ; always with one look, like a picture. It 
is not true. I am grieved when my friends are grieved*, 
I cannot be satisfied and pleased when they are in 
trouble.” 

“ Surely you have no need to tell me that,” he said. 
“ When your face is clouded with Ares, I know they are 
not your cares, and that you are far too ready to accept 
the burden of other people’s trouble. But I maintain 
you have no right to do so. It is your business, your 
duty, to be pleased, satisfied, contented ; to make other 
people happy by looking at your happiness. It is natural 
to you to be happy. Why, then, should you for a mo- 
ment suffer yourself to be annoyed by what I told you 
this morning ? I see 1* made a mistake. You must for- 
get it. 1 fancied I might talk to you about it without its 
iroubling you more than the looking at a new vessel on 
the horizon would trouble you ” 

“ And you believe me, therefore,” she said, with some 
indignation in Tier voice, “ a mere doll, a baby, to be 
pleased with a rattle, and incapable of understanding 
the real human trouble around me ? Perhaps you are 
right. Perhaps I do not care for anything but my own 
pleasure, but it is not flattery to tell me so.” 

With that she walked away from him and rejoined 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


1 68 

Lady Drum, who had again come on deck. Lord Earls- 
hope had no further chance of speaking a word to her. 
At dinner, in the evening, Coquette was silent, and her 
face was downcast and troubled. When she spoke it was 
to Lady Drum, towards whom she was obediently and 
almost anxiously attentive. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

TOUCHING CERTAIN PROBLEMS. 

Very singular in appearance was the small congrega- 
tion grouped on the deck of the Caroline, to listen to Mr. 
Cassilis’s sermon on that quiet Sunday morning. The 
Minister himself stood erect and firm, with his gray hair, 
for he was bareheaded, and his sunken. face touched with 
the misty glow of the early sunlight. Almost at his feet 
sat Lady Drum and^Coquette, the latter sometimes wist- 
fully looking away over the calm sea, towards the Calve 
Island or the distant shores of Loch Sunart. Lord 
Earlshope sat by himself still farther aft, where he could 
catch the outline of Coquette’s face as she turned to look 
up at the Minister. And then forward were the sailors, 
a small group of bronzed and sturdy men, lying about 
in a listless and picturesque fashion, with their scarlet 
caps gleaming in the sun. The background was the 
smooth waters of the bay, with a faint blue smoke rising 
mistily into the still air from over the scattered houses of 
Tobermory. 

Coquette had begged hard to be allowed to preface 
or assist the service with her harmonium, but her prayer 
was explicitly refused. Indeed, there might not have 
been much in the music to harmonize with the stern and 
matter-of-fact exhortation which the Minister had pre- 
pared. It is true that, as he warmed to his subject, he 
indulged in the rare license of breaking away from his 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


169 

preconceived plan of argument and illustration. He was 
dealing with things which were now before his eyes ; and 
as his rude and homely eloquence became more and more 
touched with enthusiasm, it seemed as though the in- 
spiration of the sea had fallen on him. “ What meanest, 
thou, O sleeper ? ” was his text ; and the cry with which 
the sailors awakened Jonah seemed the Minister’s own 
cry to the men who now lived along these lonely coasts. 
Indeed, there was a singular and forcible realism about 
the .address which surprised Coquette; it was so differ- 
ent from the long and weary sermons on doctrine to 
which she had of late been accustomed. The Minister 
had borrowed all his imagery from his recent experi- 
ences. He described the storm, the rushing of the water, 
the gloom of the hills, the creaking of cordage, until you 
could have fancied that Jonah was actually trying to 
make for Crinan Bay. The sailors were thoroughly 
aroused and interested. It was to them a thrilling and 
powerful narrative of something that had actually hap- 
pened, something far more real and human than the 
vague stories and legends of the Western Isles, those 
faintly colored and beautiful things that happened so far 
away and so long ago that the sound of them now is like 
the sound of a sea-shell. 

Of course there came the application, which was 
equally practical, if less picturesque. The fishermen, 
who were now lazily lying on the grassy slopes above 
the Tobermory cottages, satisfied with the drowsy 
warmth and the sensation of rest, the sailors themselves, 
who were busy from day to day with the mysteries ®f the 
elements, fighting with the accidents of the present 
world, regarding only the visible horizon around them, 
they were but as sleepers asleep in a storm. For out- 
side of this visible horizon, lay another and more myste- 
rious horizon, which was daily drawing closer to them, 
bearing with it the doom of humanity. Hour by hour 
the world was being narrowed by this approaching bank 
of cloud ; and when, at last it ‘burst, and the lightinng 
of death gleamed out from its sombre shadows, would 
* there then be time- to seek for the Jonah who must be 


7 ° 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


thrown overboard ? The old man, with his bared head 
and his eager manner, seemed himself a prophet sent up 
to denounce Nineveh and all her iniquities ; and so im- 
pressive and resonant was his voice, heard over the 
strange calm of the sea, that more than one of the 
sailors had unconsciously turned to gaze far out towards 
the western horizon, as though expecting to find there 
the gathering storm-clouds of which he spoke. 

After this forenoon service had been finished, a 
dilemma occurred. The Minister had been furnished 
with no rules for the observance of the Sabbath on 
board a vessel. He had no precedents for his guidance. 
He could not simply request everybody to come indoors 
and take a book. Coquette, indeed, resolutely remained 
on deck. 

“Weil,” said Lady Drum, “we are out o’ doors as 
much as we can be, and it would be no worse, surely, if 
we went on shore.” 

Not even Lord Earlshope had thought of continu- 
ing their voyage ; that was a thing which, on the face 
of it, could not be permitted. But when the Minister 
was confronted bv the difficulty which Lady Drum had 
discovered, he did not know well what to do. He was 
averse to their going ashore and walking about on the 
Sabbath morning, to the scandal of all decent folk ; on 
the other hand, there was little difference between that 
and sitting on deck to look at the sea and the houses, 
while going below and immuring themselves all day was 
out of the question. At last his natural good-sense 
triumphed. He gave his consent to their leaving the 
boat for a certain time, in fact, until the hour for after- 
noon service on deck, if they chose, but he would re- 
main on board. 

" “ You will come ashore, will you not?” said Lord 

Ea.’ishope to Coquette. 

“No, I wish to remain with my uncle,” said Co- 
quette, hurriedly. 

“ Nonsense, nonsense 1” said Lady Drum. “ Would 
you have an old woman like me stravaiging about the 
shore by myself ? ” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


171 

But Lord Earlshope will go with you,” said Co- 
quette, timidly. 

“ That does not matter. He is no a companion for 
me ; so get on your hat and come away at once.” 

Coquette did so, and got into the pinnace, deter- 
mined to cling closely to Lady Drum’s side. As they 
neared the shore, the latter remarked that the village 
seemed quite deserted. 

“ The fishermen spend their Sundays either indoors 
or up on the hills/' said Lord Earlshope. “ I believe 
the married ones prefer the hills.” 

Perhaps that haphazard alkisionto marriage remained 
in his mind ; for, after they had landed and walked 
some distance around the shore, until they discovered a 
pleasant place from which to sit and watch the sea-birds 
over the Sound, he said, rather indolently, — 

“ I wonder how many of those poor men have a pleas- 
ant home to return to after the fatigue and discom- 
fort of a night out at the fishing.” 

As this was a problem which neither of the ladies 
with him could readily solve, the only answer was the 
plashing of the clear sea-water on the stones. Presently 
he said, in the same careless way, — 

“ Do you know, Lady Drum, that physiologists say 
we become quite differant people every seven years? 
Don’t look surprised, I am going to explain. They say 
that every atom and every particle of us have in that 
time been used up and replaced ; so that we are not the 
same persons we were seven years before. It is but 
natural to suppose that the mind changes with the body, 
if not so completely. You, for example, mus-t find that 
you have not the same opinions on many subjects that 
you had seven years ago. And in the case of young 
people especially, they do positively and actually change 
the whole of their mental and physical structure in even 
less time than that. You follow this introductory dis- 
course ? ” he added, with a laugh. 

“ Quite,” said the elderly lady, “ though I am no 
sure it is a proper one for a Sabbath morning.” 

“ You must hear me out, and with attention. The 


172 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


subject is profound. If I am a different person at the 
end of seven years, why should I be bound by promises 
I made when I was my former self ? ” 

“ Mercy on us ! ” said Lady Drum. “ Is it a rid- 
dle ? ” 

“ Yes. Shall I help you to solve it by an illustra- 
tion ? Suppose one of those sturdy young fishermen 
here, when he is a mere boy of nineteen, undeveloped 
and quite vacant as to experience, is induced to marry 
some woman who has a bad nature and a hideous tem- 
per. He is a fool, of course. But seven years after- 
wards he is not so great a fool, indeed he has become 
another person, according to the physiological theory, 
and the new fisherman hates and abhors his wife, per- 
ceives the deformity of her character, is revolted by her 
instead of attracted to her. Now why should he be 
bound by the promise of the former fisherman ? Indeed, 
she too is another woman. Why should the old mar- 
riage bind together these two new persons ? It has 
gone away as the mark on your finger-nail goes away, 
they have outgrown it.” 

Lady Drum began to look alarmed, and Lord Earls- 
hope, catching sight of her face, laughed lightly. 

“No,” he said, “don’t imagine me a monster. I 
don’t want to unmarry anybody ; it is only a theory. 
Yet why shouldn’t there be a Statute of Limitations 
with regard to other matters than money ? ” 

“ You mean,” said Lady Drum, solemnly, “ that I, 
Margaret Ainslie Drum, wife of Sir Peter of that name, 
am no longer a married woman, but free to marry whom 
I please ? ” 

“ Precisely,” said Lord Earlshope, apparently with a 
sincere joy that she had so thoroughly understood his 
argument. “ You might marry me, or anybody, ac- 
cording to the theory, you know.” 

“ Yes, according to the theory,” remarked Lady 
Drum, endeavoring to repress her virtuous wrath ; “ of 
course, according to the theory.” 

With that he fairly burst out laughing. 

' “ I do believe I have shocked you,” he said, “ in my 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


m 


endeavor to find out an argument why that imaginary 
poor fisherman should be released from his bonds. It 
was only a joke, you know, Lady Drum ; for of course one 
could not unsettle all the marriages in England n>erely 
to benefit one or two people. Yet it does seem hard 
that when a man is a fool and marries, then ceases to be 
a fool and wishes to be free from his blunder, there is 
no hope for him. You don’t seem to care to speculate 
about those matters, do you ? ” he addej, carelessly, as 
he tried to twine two bits of grass. “ Have you ever 
looked around the whole circle of your acquaintances, 
and wondered, supposing all present marriages were 
dissolved, what new conbinations they would form in a 
week’s time ? 1 

“ I confers,” said Lady Drum, with some sarcasm, 
“ that I have never amused myself in so ingenious a way. 
Pray, Lord Earlshope, what was it in Mr. Cassilis’s ser- 
mon that provoked these meditations of yours ? ” 

“ Oh, they are not of recent date,” said his lordship, 
with a fine indifference. “ It is no new thing for me to 
discover that some of my friends would like to be un- 
married. My notion of their right to do so is only a 
phantasy of course, which is not to be taken au grand 
se?ieux. 

“ I should think not,” said Lady Drum, with some 
dignity. 

Indeed, it was not until they had strolled along the 
shore some distance on their way back to the boat that 
the frown left her face. Her natural good-sense came 
to her aid, and showed her that Lord Earlshope had 
merely been amusing himself, as was his wont, with 
idle and morbid fancies. He had obviously no reason 
to advance anything so horrible and dangerous as a free 
criticism on the rights of marriage. What was it to him 
if all the fishermen in Tobermory, or in a dozen Tober- 
mories, remained up on the hills during the Sundays in 
order to get away from their wives ? So the grave and 
handsome face of the old lady gradually recovered its 
urbane and benignant expression, and she even ventured 
o rebuke Lord Earlshope, in a good-humored way, 


*74 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TU 


about the inappropriate occasion he had chosen for his 
lecture on physiology. 

Coquette had said nothing all this time. She walked 
by Lady Drum’s side, with an absent look in her face 
and eyes, not paying much attention to what was said, 
She seemed somewhat relieved to get into the pinnace 
again, so that Lady Drum expressed a hope that her 
duties of companion had not been irksome to her. 

“ Oh, no ! ”^she said ; “ I am ready to go with you 
whenever you please.” 

But later on in the day they had another quiet chat 
to themselves, and Coquette became more confidential. 

“ I do not understand it ; there is something wrong 
in it, surely,” said the girl, with a thoughtful look in her 
eyes, “ when a young man like Lord Earlshope seems to 
have nothing more in the world to do, to have lost in- 
terest in everything, and at times to be gloomy, and as 
if he were angry with the world. Have you not noticed 
it, Lady Drum ? Have you not seen it in his face when 
he is talking idly ? And then he says something in a 
bitter way, and laughs, and it is not pleasant to hear. 
Why has he lost interest in everything ? Why does he 
spend his time at home, reading books, and anxious to 
avoid seeing people ? ” 

Lady Drum regarded her with astonishment. 

“Well, well,” she said, “who would have thought 
that those dreaming black eyes of yours were studying 
people so accurately ; and that beneath that knot of rib- 
bon in your wild lumps of hair the oddest notions were 
being formed ? And what concern have ye wi, Lord 
Earlshope’s idle habits, and his restlessness and dissatis- 
faction ? ” 

“ I ? ” said Coquette, calmly. “ It is not my concern 
but it is sad to see a man whose life is wasted, who has 
no longer any object in it.” 

“ He enjoys himself,” said Lady Drum. 

“ He does not enjoy himself,” said Coquette, with de- 
cision. “ He is very polite, and does not intrude his 
troubles on any one. You might think he passed the 
time pleasantly, that he. was content with his idleness. I 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. - 

do not believe it, no, I do believe there is not a more 
wretched man alive.” 

Lady Drum elevated her eyebrows. Instead of hav- 
ing one problem in humanity before her, she had now 
two. And why had this young lady taken so pathetic 
an interest in Lord Earlshope’s wretchedness ? 


CHAPTER 'XXV. 
coquette’s presentiments. 

It was impossible this condition of affairs could last. 
A far less observant man than Lord Earlshope was bound 
to perceive the singular change which had fallen over 
Coquette’s manner. Hitherto she had appeared to him 
to be the very personification of joyousness, to live a 
graceful, happy, almost unthinking life, in an atmosphere 
of tender emotions and kindly sentiments, which were 
as the sunshine and the sea-breezes to her. Why should 
this young creature, with the calm and beautiful face, 
whose dark eyes showed a perfect serenity and placidity 
of soul, be visited with the rougher passions, the harsher 
experiences, which befal less fortunate people ? That 
was not her tole. It was her business to be happy, to 
be waited upon, to be pleased. She had but to sit on 
deck, in her French costume of dark green tartan and 
black lace, with a book lying open but unread on her 
knee, with her hand inside Lady Drum’s arm, with the 
clear light of the sea and the clouds shining in her face 
and in the darkness of her eyes, and leave troubles and 
cares and vexations to those born under a less fortunate 
star. 

All that was over. Coquette was distraite , restless, 
miserable. The narrow limits of the yacht were a prison 
to her. She was silent and reserved, and seemed merely 
to wait with a resigned air for the end of the voyage. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


175 

Had the Whaup been there, she would probably have 1 
entered into confidences with him, or even relieved the 1 
blank monotony by quarrelling with him. As it was, 
she listened to Lady Drum and Lord Earlshope talking, | 
without adding a syllable to the conversation ; and, while 
she dutifully waited on her uncle, and arranged his books 
and papers for him, she went about in a mute way, which 
he took as a kindly observance of his wish not to be dis- i 
turbed during his hours. of study. 

“ What has become o’ your blithe spirits, Catherine ? ” . 
he asked on the Monday morning, as they were leaving 
Tobermory Bay. “ I do not hear ye sing to yourself 
now ? Yet I am told by Lady Drum that the voyage : 
has done ye a world o’ good.” 

“ Oh, I am very well, uncle,” she said, eagerly. “ I 
am very well, indeed ; and whenever you please to go 
back to Airlie, I shall be glad to go too.” 

“ That is good news,” said the Minister, cheerfully, 

“ good news. And we maun see about getting home 
again ; for I am anxious to hear how young Mr. McAlis- 
ter acquitted himself yesterday, and I would fain hope 
there is no dissension among my people this morning, 
such as the enemy is anxious to reap profit by.” 

“Have you an enemy, uncle?” said Coquette. 

“We have all an enemy,” said the Minister, so im- 
pressively that his niece looked alarmed, “ an enemy who 
is ever watchful to take advantage o’ our absence or our 
thochtlessness ; who goeth about like a raging lion, seek- : 
ing whom he may devour.” 

“ But is he in Airlie ? ” asked Coquette, who was still ■ 
puzzled 

“ Why, your uncle means the devil,” said Lady Drum, 
gayly, as she' entered the saloon, “who is in Airlie as 
elsewhere, espaycially when there’s whiskey afoot, and 
the Pensioner is asked to bring out his fiddle. Come up 
the stairs, both o’ ye, and see the wonderfu’ places we 
are passing. I’m thinking we have got to the end o’ the 
lochs and the islands at last and there is nothing left for 
us but to go straight out into the sea. I hope it’ll deal 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


1 77 


gently wi’ us,” added Lady Drum, with an involuntary 
shiver. 

When they went on deck, Coquette keeping close by 
her uncle, as if she feared being addressed by a stranger, 
it was clear that the good weather which had so far accom- 
panied them showed no signs of breaking. Over the 
blue western sea there was but the roughness of a slight 
breeze, which Was only sufficient to fill the Caroline s 
sails ; while the jagged coast of the mainland, with the 
mountains of Ardnamurchan and Moidart, lay steeped in 
a faint mist under the morning sunlight. The yellow 
light, too, from the east gleamed along the peaked hills 
of the islands on their left, a drowsy and misty light that 
blurred the horizon line where the gray-blue sky and the 
''gray-blue water faded into each other. 

Lord Earlshope was surprised to hear the Minister 
talk of returning immediately. 

“ We must, ~at all events, show Miss Cassilis the 
wonders of Loch Scavaig and Corqjsk.” he said, “ even 
though you should have to go over to-morrow by Torren 
to Broadford, and catch the steamer there. We shall make 
Loch Scavaig this evening if the wind does not fail us.” 

“1 hope the wind will play no tricks with us,” said 
Lady Drum. “ I shall never forget what I suffered in 
this very place when I first went to Skye many years ago. 
indeed, when Sir Peter and I were just married.” 

“ You might wait a couple of months without catch- 
ing such a chance as we have to-day,” said Lord Earls- 
hope. “ But to return to this question of your stay. 
Don’t you mean to visit the Spar Cave, and go up Glen 
Sligachan, and ascend the Quiraing ? ” 

It was with a dull sense of* pain that Coquette heard 
the reply. The Minister said there was no absolute hurry, 
that his niece would probably like to visit those wild and 
romantic scenes of which she must have heard and read. 
Coquette accepted her fate mutely ; but she took the op- 
portunity of saying, a few minutes afterwards, to Lady 
Drum. 

“ I hope we shall not stay long in this place, this wild 


7 * 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


island. It must be horrible and ghastly, from what they 
say.” 

“ It is the most desolate and awful place it is possi- 
ble to imagine, V said Lady Drum ; u a place that reminds 
you o’ a world that had long ago suffered a judgment-day, 
and been burned up wi’ fire. For days after I saw it first 
I used to dream about it, the black and still water, and 
the twisted rocks and the stillness o’ the place. It would 
be fearfu’ to be left alone there at night, wi’ the sound 
o’ .the burns running in the darkness.” 

Coquette shuddered. 

“ I will not go ashore,” she said. “ There is no reason 
for our going ashore, if we must get back at once to 
Airlie.” 

So the day wore on, and the stately Caroline, with her 
bow coquettishly dipping to the waves, drew gradually to- 
wards the north, passing the broad mouth of the Sound of 
Sleat, and coming in view of the sharp rocks of Canna, be- 
yond the mountains of Rum Island. They were now close 
by the southern shores of Skye. Coquette became more 
and more disturbed. It seemed to her that she was being 
taken to some gloomy prison, from which no escape was 
possible. Lady Drum continued to describe the sombre 
and desolated appearance of the place they were going 
to, until these pictures produced the most profound effect 
on the girl’s imagination. The Caroline seemed to go 
forward through the water with a relentless persistency, 
and Coquette, as the afternoon approached, and she saw 
far in the north the misty outlines of the shore towards 
which they were tending, gave way to an unreasoning, 
despairing terror. 

Lady Drum was amazed. 

“ You are not afraid o’ rocks and water ? ” she said. 

“ Afraid of them ? No,” said the girl. “ I am afraid 
of the place. I know not why, and of our remaining there. 
I would rather be away; I would rather be going back. 
It is a presentiment I have. I cannot understand it, but 
it makes me tremble.” 

“ That is foolish,” said Lady Drum. “ You have not 
been yourself since your cousin left.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


179 


“ I wish he were here now,” murmured Coquette. 

“ He would laugh you out of your fears,” said the 
elderly lady, in a cheerful way. Come, rouse yourself 
up, and dismiss those gloomy fancies of yours. We 
: shall see you to-morrow on a little Highland pony, going 
around such precipices as are fit to take your breath 
away ; and you will be as light-hearted and as careless as 
if you were in my drawing-room at Castle Cawmil, with 
an open piano before you. By the way, you have not 
played us anything since your cousin left us at Oban.” 

“ I cannot play just now,” said Coquette, sitting calm 
1 and cold, with her eyes fixed with a vague apprehensive- 
ness on the coast they were drawing near. 

“ What a strange creature you are,” said Lady Drum, 
affectionately. “ You are either -all fire and sunshine, 
or as deep and morose as a well on a dark day. There 
I is Lord Earlshope, who, I am certain, thinks he has 
|i offended you ; and he keeps at a distance, and watches 
ye in a penitent fashion, as if he would give his ears to 
| see you laugh again. I think I maun explain to him 
1 that it is no his fault ” 

“ No, no, no, Lady Drum ! ” exclaimed Coquette, in 
; a low voice. “ You must not speak to him.” 

“ Hoity toity ! Is he to believe that I have quar- 
; relied wi’ him as well ; and are we a’ to put the man in 
irons in his own yacht? ” 

“ Please don’t tell him anything about me,” pleaded 
• Coquette. 

“ But look at him at this moment,” said Lady Drum, 
with sudden compassion ; “ look at him up at the bow 
there, standing all by himself, without a human being 
taking notice o’ him, looking helplessly at naething, 
and doubtless wondering whether he will get a word ad- 
dressed to him at dinner. Is it fair, my young lady, to 
serve a man in that fashion in his own boat? ” 

“ You may go and speak to him,” said Coquette, 
eagerly. “Yes, you must speak to him, but not about 
me. He does not want to talk about me ; and you 
would only put wrong' things into his head. Please go, 
Lady Drum; and talk to him.” 


jSo a daughter of he tit. 

“ And what for should it rest on an old woman like 
me to amuse a young man ! What for am I to talk to 1 
him, and ye sitting here as mute and as mum as a 
mouse ? ” 

“Because, because,”, said Coquette, with hesitation, 

“ because I think I am afraid of this island. I am not 
angry with him, with anybody, but I — I — Oh, Lady 
Drum ! ” she suddenly exclaimed, “ won’t you persuade 1 
them to come away from this place at once, instead of re- 
mainingfor days? I cannot do it — I cannot remain. I 
will go away by myself, if they will let me take the 
steamer.” 

She spoke quite wildly, and Lady Drum looked at j 
her with some alarm. 

“ I cannot understand a bit o’ this,” she said gravely. 

“ What for have ye a fear o’ an island ? Or is it that 
ye are so anxious to follow your cousin ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you what it is,” said Coquette, “ for I 
cannot explain in your language. It is a -presentiment, 
a terror, I do not know ; I only know that if we remain 
in this island long ” 

She trembled so violently as she spoke that Lady 
Drum feared the girl had been attacked by some nerv- 
ous fever. Her face, too, was pale ; and the dark and 
beautiful eyes were full of a strange lustre, obviously 
the result of great excitement. 

At this moment some order of the skipper recalled 
the eyes of Coquette from looking vaguely over the sea • 
towards the south ; and as she turned her face to the 
bow, Lady Drum felt the hand that held hers, tighten 
its grasp, for the Caroline was slowly creeping in and 
under the gloom of the weird Cuchullin Hills. 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


181 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

CONFESSION AT LAST. 

Sunset in the wild Loch Scavaig. Far up amid the 
shoulders and peaks of Garsven there were flashes of 
flame and the glow of the western skies, with Kere and 
there a beam of ruddy and misty light touching the sum- 
mits of the mountains in the east ; but down here, in 
v the black and desolate lake, the bare and riven rocks 
showed their fantastic forms in a cold gray twilight. 
There was a murmur of streams in the stillness, and the 
hollow silence was broken from time to time by the call 
of wild-fowl. Otherwise the desolate scene was as 
silent as death, and the only moving thing abroad was 
the red light in the clouds. The Caroline lay motion- 
less in the dark water. As the sunset fell the moun- 
tains seemed to growlarger ; the twisted and precipitous 
cliffs that shot down into the sea grew more and more 
distant ; while a pale blue vapor gathered here and 
there, as if the spirits of the mountains were advancing 
under a veil. 

Oddly enough, the terror of Coquette had largely 
subsided when the Caroline had cast anchor. She re- 
garded the gloomy shores with aversion and distrust ; 
•but she no longer trembled. Indeed, the place seemed 
to have exercised some fascination over her ; for, 
while all the others were busy with their own affairs, she 
did not cease to scan with strange and wondering eyes 
the sombre stretch of water, the picturesque and desolate 
shore, and the mystic splendors of the twilight overhead. 
She kept apart from her friends, and seemed even to re- 
gard Lady Drum with a distant and apprehensive look. 

Lady Drum resolved that she would speak to the 
Minister when occasion offered. She was afraid that 


182 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


this niece of his was an incomprehensible young person, 
given over to visions and dreams, and requiring to be 
kept well in hand. 

Dinner was rather a gloomy affair. Lord Earlshope 
seemed to consider that, for some reason or other, a con- 
spiracy had been formed against him. He was very 
courteous and quiet, but spoke chiefly to the Minister, 
and that somewhat formally. Lady Drum in vain en- 
deavored to be lively. 

Suddenly the Minister seemed to perceive that there 
was something wrong. He looked from one to the other ; 
and at last he said, — 

“ This wild scenery has had its effect upon us. We 
have grown very grave, have we not, Lady Drum ? ” 

“ I think we are downright solemn,” said Lady Drum, 
waking herself up as if from a nightmare. “ I cannot 
understand it. Miss Coquette, as I am told they some- 
times ca’ ye, what does it all mean ? ” 

Coquette looked up with a start. 

“ I do not know,” she said. “ To me these hills look 
dreadful I am afraid of them. I should be glad to be 
away.” 

Lord Earlshope did not reply to her, or endeavor to 
reason her out of her vague impressions. On the con- 
trary, he regarded her, when no one else was looking, 
with a watchful and rather wistful scrutiny, which 
seemed to leave rather a sad impression on his own face. 

The night was cold, and, after dinner, no one pro- 
posed to go on deck. Indeed, the autumn was rapidly 
closing in upon them ; and there was comfort in the yel- 
low light of the lamps, the warmth, and the open books 
down below. Lord Earlshope and Lady Dmm proceeded 
to engage in a game of cribbage ; the Minister took up 
a bundle of manuscripts ; Coquette receded into a 
corner. 

Then she stole out of the place, and went upon deck 
How wonderful was the darkness now ! for it seemed to 
burn with all manner of weird and fanciful lights. There 
were white stars dancing on the water, one great planet 
quivering on the dark plain as if it were a moon. The 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


^3 


moon itself was a thin sickle down in the south, far a- 
way in a mystic world of green. Then over the peaks 
of the Cuchullins there still lay the lambent traces of 
the twilight, a pale, metallic, yellow glow, which was far 
too faint to show on the black surface of the sea. A 
wind had sprung up, too, and it brought with it the sound 
of the mountain streams from out of the solemn stillness 
of the night. 

There came into her head the refrain of a song which 
she used to hear the sailors sing in St. Nazaire, — 

“ Apres tro’s ans d’ absence 
Loin de France, 

Ah ! quel beau jour, 

Que le jour du retour ! ” 

“Why cannot I go back there ? v she murmured to 
herself. “ where there was no miserable days, no miser- 
able nights ? I am terrified of this place, of the people, 
of what I have become myself. If I could only fly away 
down to the South, and hear them singing that on the 
Loire, — 


1 Ah ! quel beau jour, 

Que le jour de retour ! ”* 

that is what I would say also, when I saw old Nanette 
come out running to see. me, and she would laugh and 
she would cry to see me.” 

The tears were running down her cheeks. Suddenly 
there stood by her a tall figure in the darkness, and she 
started to hear her own name pronounced. 

“ Why do you sit up here' alone, Miss Cassilis ? ” 
said Lord Earlshope. 

She could not answer. He took a seat beside her, 
and said, — 

“ There is another question I want to ask you. Why 
have you avoided me these two days, and made me as 
though I were a stranger to you ? Let us be frank with 
each other. Are you vexed with me because, in a mo- 
ment of foolishness which I deeply regret, I revealed 
to you a secret which I ought to have kept to myself ? 

\ 

\ 


84 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


“ I ain not vexed, she said, ip a low voice. “You 
must not suppose that.” 

“ But I must suppose something,” he said. “ Why- 
should I be your bete noire , from whom you must fly at 
every conceivable moment ? If I appear on deck, you 
seek refuge with Lady Drum or go below. If I go be- 
low, you come on deck. If I join in a conversation, you 
become silent. Why should this be so ? I proposed this 
excursion, as you know, for your especial benefit. The 
whole thing was planned merely because it might proba- 
bly amuse you, and yet you are the only one on board 
who seems unhappy. Why ? I broke my compact about 
returning to Airlie after seeing you a day or two on the 
voyage, partly through indolence, and partly because I 
fancied I might make matters smooth and pleasant for 
you if you went farther. I find, on the contrary, that I 
have become a sort of bogey — a kill-joy.” 

“ Oh, no, it is not so ! ” she said, hurriedly. “ There 
is no one in fault — no one but myself.” 

“But you are not in fault,” he protested. “There 
has been no fault committed, and I want to know how 
the old condition of affairs is to be restored. I cannot 
bear to see you suffering this restraint from morning till 
night. Rather than have you pass such another day as 
I know you have passed to-day, I would row ashore this 
moment, and take my chance of getting lodgings or 
walking over to Broadford, so that you should have no 
fear of to-morrow.” 

Oh, no, no ! ” she said, in despair ; “ you must not 
do that. And you must not suppose that I am angry 
with you. But after what you did say the other day ” 

“That is it,” he said, in a tone of profound disap- 
pointment. “ I had already fancied my careless talk was 
a blunder, but I see only now how irretrievable it is. 
Well, I cannot help it. You shall not suffer the penalty 
of my stupidity, however. To-morrow morning you shall 
be free.” 

So he went away ; and she sat still, silent and im- 
movable, with a great pain at her heart. She listened 
to the murmur of the water along the shore, and it seemed 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH.\ 


185 

to have taken up the refrain that had been running in 
her memory, only that it was more vague and more sad. 
“ Trois ans a? absence. . . . loin de Fiance. . . .jourdu re- 
tour ! ” Again she was startled by the approach of some 
one. She knew that Lord Earlshope had returned. He 
brought with him a thick shawl, and he said in a some- 
what formal and courteous way, — 

“ Lady Drum asks you to put this around you, if you 
prefer to remain on deck. But the night is chilly, and 
you ought to go below, I think.” 

“ I do not know why you should speak to me in that 
tone,” she said, with some slight touch of reproach in 
her voice. “ If all this unfortunate thing has happened, 
why make it worse ? I hope you will not make us 
strangers to each other, or think me ungrateful for all 
the kindness that you did show to me.” 

For an instant he stood irresolute, and then he said 
to her — in so low a voice that it was scarcely heard in 
the murmur of the sea, — 

‘.‘ And I have to thank you for something also. You 
have given me back a little of my old belief in the sweet- 
ness and innocence of good women, and in the noble- 
ness and the mystery of human life. That is not a light 
matter. It is something to have some of one’s old faith 
back again, however dearly it may be bought. The price 
has been perhaps heavier than you may have imagined. 
I have striven this day or two back to make you believe 
that I had almost forgotten what I told you. I shall 
never forget it — nor do I wish to. I may tell you that 
now, when I am about to ask you to say good-bye. It 
is not for you to be annoyed or troubled with such 
matters. You will go back to Airlie. You will scarcely 
remember that I ever told you my wretched and foolish 
story. But I shall not go back to Airlie — at least not 
for a while ; and when we do meet again, I hope you will 
have forgotten all this, and will not be afraid to meet me. 
So good-bye now, for I shall not see you in the morn- 
ing.” 

He held out his hand, but she made no response. 
What was it he heard in the stillness of the night ? 


i86 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


Moved by a great fear, he knelt down beside her, and 
looked into her face. Her eyes were filled with tears, 
and the sound he had heard was that of a low and bitter 
sobbing. There broke upon him a revelation far more 
terrible than that which had informed him of his own 
sorrow, and it was with a new anxiety in his voice that 
he said to her, — 

“ Why are you distressed ? It is nothing to you — my 
going away ? It cannot be anything to you, surely ? ” 

“ It is very much — your going away,” she said, with 
a calmness of despair which startled him. “I. cannot 
bear it. And yet you must go — and never see me again. 
That will be better for you and for me.” 

He rose to his feet suddenly, and even in the star- 
light her tearful and upturned eyes saw that his face 
was ghastly pale. 

“ What have I done ? What have I done ? ” he ex- 
claimed, as if accusing himself to the still heavens that ; 
burned with their countless stars above him. “ My j 
own blunders, my own weakness, I can . answer for, I | 
can accept my punishment ; but if this poor girl has ! 
been made to suffer through me, that is more than I 
can bear. Coquette — Coquette, tell me you do not j 
mean all this. You cannot mean it, you do not under- ! 
stand my position, you tell me what it is madness to ! 
think of ! What you say would be to any other man a | 
joy unspeakable, the beginning of a new life to him ; ' 
but to me ” 

He shuddered only, and turned away from her. 
She rose, and took his hand gently, and said to him, in 
her low, quiet voice, — , 

“ I do not know what you mean, but you must not 
accuse yourself for me, or give yourself pain. I have 
made a confession, it was right to do that, for you were j 
going away, and you might have gone with a wrong | 
thought of me, and have looked back and said I was d 
ungrateful. Now you will go away knowing that I am : 
still your friend, that I shall think of you sometimes, 
and that I shall pray never, never to see you any more 


A DAUGHTER. OF HE Til. iSj 

until we are old people, and we may meet and laugh 
at the old stupid folly.” 

There was a calm sadness in her tone that was very 
litter to him, and the next moment he was saying to 
her, in a most a wild way, — , 

“ It shall not end thus. Let the past be past, Co- 
quette, and the future ours. Look at the sea out there, 
far away beyond that you and I may begin a new life ; 
and the sea itself shall wash out all that we want to 
forget. Will you come, Coquette? Will you give up 
all your pretty ways, and your quiet home, and your 
amiable friends, to link yourself to a desperate man, 
and snatch the joy that the people in this country 
would deny us ? Let us seek a new country for our- 
selves. You love me, my poor girl, don’t you? and 
see my hand trembles with the thought of being able 
to take you away, and fight for you, and make for you 
a new world, with new surroundings, where you would 
have but one friend and one slave. What do you say, 
Coquette? Why should we two be forever miserable? 
Coquette — ! ” 

She drew back from him in fear. 

“ I am afraid of you now,” she said, with a strange 
shudder. “ You are another man. What are you ? 
what are you ? Ah ! I do see another face ” 

She staggered backward, and then, with a quick, 
wild cry, fell insensible. He sprang forward to catch 
her, and he had scarcely done so when the Minister 
hastily approached. 

“ What is the meaning of this ? ” he said. 

“ She has been sitting too long alone,” said Lord 
Earlshope, as Lady Drum came quietly forward to 
seize the girl’s hands. “ The darkness had got hold of 
her imagination, and that wild light up there ” 

For at this moment there appeared over the black 
peaks of the Cuchullins a great shifting flush of pink, 
that shone up the dark skies and then died out in a circle 
of pale violet fire. In the clear heavens this wild glare 
gleamed and faded, so that the sea also had its pallid 
colors blotting out the white points of the stars. Mr. 


i88 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TV. 


Cassilis paid little attention to the explanation, but 
it seemed , reasonable enough ; for the girl, on com- 
ing to herself, looked all around at this strange glow 
of rose-color overhead, and again shuddered violently. 

“ She has been nervous all day,” said Lady Drum ; 
“ she should not have been left alone.” 

They took her down below, but Lord Earlshope 
remained above. In a little while he went down into 
the saloon, where Mr. Cassilis sat alone, reading. 

“ Miss Cassilis will be well in the morning, I hope,” 
he said, somewhat distantly. 

“ Oh, doubtless, doubtless. She is nervous and 
excitable, as her father was, but it is nothing serious.” 

“ I hope not,” said Lord Earlshope. 

He took out writing materials, and hastily wrote a 
few lines on a sheet of paper, which he folded up and 
put in an envelope. Then he bade Mr. Cassilis good- 
night, and retired. 

But towards midnight Coquette, lying awake, heard 
cautious footsteps on deck, and the whispering voices 
of the men. In the extreme silence her sense of hear- 
ing was painfully acute. She fancied she heard one of 
the boats being brought round. There was a moment's 
silence, then the words, “ Give way ! ” followed by a 
splash of oars. 

She knew that Lord Earlshope was in the boat 
which was now making for the shore through the dark- 
ness of the night. All that had occurred on deck 
seemed now but a wild dream. She knew only that he 
had left them, perhaps never to see her again in this 
world ; she knew only that her heart was full of sorrow, 
and that her fast-flowing tears could not lessen the 
aching pain. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH- 


189 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

“LOIN DE FRANCE.’* 

A dull gray day lay over Loch Scavaig. A cold 
wind came in from the sea, and moaned about the steep 
rocks, the desolate hills, and the dark water. The wild 
fowl were more than usually active, circling about in 
flocks, restless and noisy, There were signs of a change 
in the weather, and it was a change for the worse. 

Mr. Cassilis was the first on deck. 

“ Please, sir,” said the skipper, coming forward to 
him, “ his Lordship bade me say to ye that he had to 
leave early this morning to catch the steamer, and didna 
want to disturb ye. His Lordship hoped, sir, you and 
my lady would consider the yacht your own while ye 
stayed in it, and I will take your orders for anywhere 
you please-” 

“ What a strange young man ! ” said the Minister to 
himself, as he turned away. 

He met Lady Drum, and told her what he had 
heard. 

“ He is fair daft,” said the elderly lady, with some 
impatience. “ To think of bringing us up here to this 
outlandish place, and leaving us without a word o’ 
apology ; but he was never to be reckoned on. I have 
seen him get into a frightful temper, and walk out o’ my 
house, just because a young leddy friend o’ mine would 
maintain that he looked like a married man.” 

How is my niece ? ” said the Minister. 

“ I was about to tell ye, sir,” returned Lady Drum, 
in a cautious and observant way, “ that she is still a little 
feverish and excited. I can see it in her restlessness, 
and her look. It must have been coming on ; and last 
night, *wi’ the darkness and the wildness o’ this fearsome 
place, and the red Northern Lights in the sky, it is no 
wonder she gave way.” 


190 


A DAUGHTER OF HETh. 


“ But I hope it is not serious,” said the Minister 
hastily. “ I know so little of these ailments that I must 
ask ye to be mindful o’ her, as if she were your ain bairn 
and do with her what ye think proper. Is she coming 
on deck ? ” 

“No,” said Lady Drum, carefully watching the effect 
of her speech as she proceeded. “ She will be better to 
lie quiet for the day. But we maun guard against her 
having another shock. We must get away from here, 
sir, directly.” 

“ To be sure, to be sure,” said the Minister, almost 
mechanically. “ Where shall we go ? ” 

“ Let us go straight back to Oban, and from there 
perhaps Miss Cassilis would prefer to go back to Green- 
ock by way of the steamer.” 

The skipper received his orders. Fortunateiy, al- 
though the day was lowering and dismal, the wind did 
not rise, and they had a comparatively smooth passage 
southward. The Minister remained on deck, anxious 
and disturbed ; Lady Drum was in attendance on Co- 
quette. 

The Minister grew impatient and a trifle alarmed 
when no news came from his niece. At last he went 
below and knocked at the door of her state-room. Lady 
Drum came out, shut the door behind her, and went 
with the Minister into the saloon. 

“ But how is she ? ” said he. “ Why does she keep 
to her room if she can come out ? ” 

Lady Drum was evidently annoyed and embarrassed 
by these questions, and answered them in a hesitating 
and shuffling way. At length she said somewhat in- 
sidiously, — 

“Ye do not understand French, Mr. Cassilis ? ” 

“ No,” said the Minister ; “ I have never studied the 
language of a nation whose history is not pleasant to 
me.” 

“I once knew plenty of French,” said Lady Drum, 
“ and even now manage to get through & letter to my 
friends in Paris ; but her rapid talk, ” 

“ Whose rapid talk?” said the Minister. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


I 9 I 

“ Why, your niece ” 

“ Does she talk French ? ” said he. 

Lady Drum bit her lip and was silent ; she had blurted 
out too much. 

“ You do not mean to say that Catherine is deliri- 
ous ? ” said the Minister, suddenly standing ,up with a 
pale face, as if to meet and defy the worst news that 
could reach him. 

Lady Drnm hurriedly endeavored to pacify him. It 
was nothing. It was but a temporary excitement. She 
would recover with a little rest. But this tall, sad-faced 
man would hear none of these explanations. He passed 
Lady Drum, walked along and entered the state-room, 
and stood by the little bed where his niece lay. 

She saw him enter, and there was a smile of welcome 
on her pale face. Perhaps it was the twilight, or the ex- 
ceeding darkness and lustre of the eyes which were 
fixed upon him, which made her look so pale ; but her 
appearance then, with her wild dark hair lying loosely 
on the white pillow, struck him acutely with a sense of 
vague foreboding and pain. 

“ Is it you, papa ? ” she said, quietly, and yet with a 
strange look on her face. “ Since I have been ill, I have 
been learning English to speak to you, and I can speak 
• it very well. Only Nanette does not seem to understand, 
she tires me, you must send her away ” 

With a weary look she let her face sink into the pil- 
low. 

“ Catherine,” said the Minister, with a great fear at 
his heart, “ don’t you know me ?” 

She did not answer or pay any attention for a few 
seconds, and then she said, — 

“ Yes, of course I know. But you must teach me 
how to sleep, papa, for there is a noise all around me, 
and I cannot sleep. It is like waves, and my head is 
giddy, and rocks with it and with the music. You must 
keep Nanette from singing, papa, it vexes me, and it is 
always the same — Do is ans aabse7ice — loin de France — 
ah, qnel lean jour / — and I hear it far away — always 
Nanette singing ” 


9 2 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


Lady Drum stole in behind the Minister, and laid her 
hand on his arm. 

“You must not be alarmed,” she whispered. “ This 
is nothing but the excitement of yesterday, and she may 
have caught a cold and made herself subject to a slight 
fever.” 

The Minister said nothing, but stood in a dazed way, 
looking at the girl with his sad gray eyes, and apparently 
scarcely able to realize the scene before him. 

“ When shall we reach Tobermory ? ” he asked, at 
length. 

" In about two hours,” said Lady Drum. 

The girl had overheard, for she continued to murmur, 
almost to herself, — 

“ Shall we be home again, papa, in two hours, and go 
up past St. Nazaire ? It is a long time since we were 
there, so long ago it seems a mist, and we have been in 
the darkness. Ah ! the darkness of last night out on the 
sea, with the wild things in the air, — the wild things in 
the air, and the waves crying along the shore. It is 
three years of absence, and we have been away in dreadful 
places, but now there is home again, papa, home, and 
Nannette is singing merrily now in the garden and my 
mamma does come to the gate. Why does she not speak ? 
Why does she go away ? Does she not know me any 
more — not know her little Coquette r But see ! papa, it 
is all going away : the garden is going back and back, 
my mamma has turned her face away, and I can scarcely 
see her for the darkness, have we not got home, not yet, 
after all ? for it is away now in the mist, and I can see 
nothing, and not even hear Nanette singing.” 

The Minister took the girl’s hand in his ; great tears 
were running down his cheeks, and his voice was broken 
with sobs. 

“ My girl, we shall be home presently. Do not dis- 
tress yourself about it ; lie still, the boat is carrying you 
safely home.” 

He went on deck ; he could not bear to look any 
more on the beautiful, wistful eyes that seemed to him 
full of entreaty. They carried a cruel message to him, 


4 Daughter or heth. 


m 


like the dumb look of pain that is in an animal’s eyes 
when it seeks relief and none can be given. Impatiently 
he watched the yacht go down through the desolate 
waste of gray sea, the successive headlands and bays 
slowly opening out as she sped on. He paced up and 
down the narrow strip of deck, wearing for the boat to 
get around "Ardnamurchan. It was clearly impossible 
for them to reach Oban that night ; but surely there 
would be a doctor in Tobermory, who could give Lady 
Drum sufficient directions. 

* The evening was getting dusk as they bore down 
upon the Sound of Mull. Coquette had fallen into a 
deep sleep, and her constant nurse and attendant was re- 
joiced. The Minister, however, was not a whit less anx- 
ious, and it was with eager eyes that he scanned the 
narrowing distance between the prow of the yacht and 
Tobermory Bay. At length the Caroline reached her 
berth for the night, and the anchor was scarcely let go 
when the Minister got into the pinnace and was rapidly 
rowed ashore. A few minutes afterwards he was again 
in the boat, carrying with him the doctor ; while Lady 
Drum had gone on deck to see that the sailors postponed 
the more noisy of their operations until Coquette should 
have awoke from her slumbers. 

The Minister’s first notion that was his niece should 
be taken ashore as soon as they got near a habitable 
house. But, apart from the danger of the removal, could 
she be better situated in a Tobermory cottage than in 
this little cabin, where she could have the constant care 
of Lady Drum ? The present consultation afforded him 
some relief. It was probably only a slight fever, the re- 
sult of powerful nervous excitement and temporary weafc 
ness of the system. She was to remain where she was, 
subject to the assiduous attentions of her nurse ; a phy- 
sician was to be consulted when they reached Oban 
and, if circumstances then warranted it, she might be’ 
gently taken south in the yacht to her own home. 

Next day, however, the fever had somewhat increased, 
and the wild imaginings, the pathetic appeals, and the 
incoherent ramblings of the girl’s delirium grew in in- 


194. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


tensity. The bizarre combinations of all her recent ex- 
periences were so foreign to all probability that her 
nurse paid but little attention to them, although she was 
sometimes deeply affected by the pathetic reminiscences 
of her charge, or by the lurid descriptions of dark sea 
scenes which were apparently present to the girl’s imag- 
ination with a ghastly distinctness. Yet through all 
these fantastic groupings of mental phenomena there 
ran a series of references to Lord Earlshope, which 
Lady Drum was startled to find had some consistency. 
They occurred in impossible combinations with other 
persons and things ; but they repeated, with a strange 
persistency, the same impressions, On the afternoon of 
the day on which they arrived at Oban, the physician 
having come and gone, Coquette beckoned her companion 
to sit down by her. She addressed her as Nanette, as 
she generally did, mistaking her elderly friend for her 
old nurse. 

“ Listen, Nanette. Yesterday I did see something 
terrible. I cannot forget it,” she said, in. a low voice, 
with her dark eyes apparently watching something in 
the air before her. “ It was Lord Earlshope coming 
over the sea to me, walking on the water, and there 
was a glare of light around him ; and he seemed an 
angel that had come with a message, for he held some- 
thing in his hand to me, and there was a smile on his 
face. You do not know him, Nanette, it is no matter. 
All this happened long ago, in another country, and now 
that I am home again it is forgotten, • except when I 
dream. Are you listening, poor old Nanette ?. As he 
came near the boat, I held out my hand to save him 
✓from the waves. Ah ! the strange light there was. It 
seemed to grow day, although we were up in the north, 
under the black mountains, and in the shadow of the 
night-clouds. I held out my hand to him, Nanette ; and 
he had almost come to me, and then — and then — there 
was a change, and all the light vanished, and he dropped 
down into the sea, and in place of Lord Earlshope there 
was a fearful thing, a devil, that laughed in the water, 
and swam around, and I ran back for fear. There was 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


*95 

a red light around him in the sea, and he laughed, and 
stretched up his hands. Oh, it was dreadful — dreadful, 
Nanette ! ” the girl continued, moaning and shuddering. 
“ I cannot close my eyes but I see it, and yet, where is 
the letter I got before he sank into the water ? ” 

She searched underneath her pillow for the note 
which Lord Earlshope had left for her on the night be- 
fore he went. She insisted on Lady Drum reading it. 
The old lady opened the folded bit of paper, and read 
the following words, “ I was mad last night. I do not 
know what I said. Forgive me, for I cannot forgive my- 
self!' 

What should she do with this fragment of corres- 
pondence which now confirmed her suspicions ? If she 
were to hand it back to the girl it was probable she might 
in her delirium give it to Mr. Cassilis, who had enough 
to suffer without it. After all, Lady Drum reflected, 
this note criminated no one ; it only revealed the fact 
that there was some connection between Lord Earls- 
hope’s sudden departure and the wild scene of the night 
before. She resolved to retain that note in her posses- 
sion for the meantime, and give it back to Coquette 
when the girl should have recovered. 

“ May I keep this message for a little while ? ” she 
asked, gently. 

Coquette looked at it, and turned away her head and 
murmured to herself, — 

“ Yes, yes, let it go, it is the last bit of what is now 
all past and gone. Why did I ever go away from 
France, up to that wild place in the north, where the 
night has‘red fire in it, and the sea is full of strange 
faces ? It is all past and gone. Nanette, Nanette, have 
1 told you of all that I saw in Scotland, of the woman 
who did take my mother’s crucifix from me, and the old 
man I used to fear, and the Highlander, and my brave 
Cousin Tom, and my uncle, and — and another who has 
got no name now ! I should not have gone there, away 
from you, my poor, old Nanette, but now it is all over, 
and I a.m come home again. How pleasant it is to be in 
the warm south again, Nanette ! I shall never leave 


I9 6 a daughter of he th 

France any more, I will stay here, under the bright skies, 
and we shall go down to the river, as we used to do, and 
you will sing to me. Nanette, Nanette, it is a pretty song, 
but so very sad ; do you not know that this is the day of 
our return to France, that we are at home now, at 
home ?” 


CHAPTER XXVIII. 

AFTER MANY DAYS. 

It was a Sunday morning in winter. For nearly a 
fortnight Airlie Moor had been lying under a “ black 
frost.” The wind that whistled through the leafless 
woods, and swept over the hard ground, was bitterly 
cold ; the sky was gray and cheerless ; the far stretch 
of the sea was more than usually desolate. The frost 
had come soon on the heels of autumn, and already all 
the manifold signs of life which had marked the summer 
were nipped off and dead. The woods were silent ; the 
murmur of the moorland rivulet had been hushed, for 
its narrow channel contained a mass of ice; and the- 
stripped and bare fields over which the wintry wind 
blew were hard as iron. 

Then there was one night’s snow, and in a twinkling 
the whole scene was changed. On the Saturday night 
a certain stranger had arrived in Ardrossan, and put up 
at an inn there. He had come down from Glasgow in 
a third-class carriage, and had a sufficiently cheerless 
journey. But now, on this Sunday morning, when he 
got up and went out, lo ! there was a new world all 
around him. The sun was shining brightly over the 
great white fields, the trees hung heavy with the snow, 
the straggling groups of men and women coming in 
from the country to church moved ghostlike and silent 
along the white roads, and the sea outside had caught 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


*97 


a glimmer of misty yellow from the sunlight, and was al- 
most calm. The bright and clear atmosphere was ex- 
hilarating, although yet intensely cold ; and as this soli- 
tary adventurer issued forth from the town, and took his 
way to the high country, the frosty air brought a glow 
of color into his young and healthy face. The frost had 
evidently neither stiffened his limbs nor congealed his 
blood ; and yet even when the brisk exercise had made 
him almost uncomfortably warm, he still kept his Scotch 
cap well down over his forehead, while the collar of his 
top-coat was pulled up so as to conceal almost the whole 
of the rest of his face. 

His light and springy step took him. rapidly over the 
ground, and his spirits rose with the clear air and the 
joyous exercise. He began to sing “ Drumclog,” Sun- 
day morning as it was. Then, when he had gained a 
higher piece of country, and turned to look around him 
on the spacious landscape, when he saw the far hills and 
the valleys shining white in the sunlight, the snow lying 
thick and soft on the evergreens, and the sea grown 
blue and silvery around the still whiteness of the land, 
he cjrew a long breath, and said to himself, — 

“ Isn’t it worth while to live twenty years in Glas- 
gow to catch a glimpse of such a picture as that, and 
get a mouthful of the clear air ? ” 

By and by he came in sight of Airlie, and then he 
moderated his pace. Over the silence of the snow he 
could hear the sharp clanging of the church bell. A 
dark line of stragglers was visible on the whiteness of 
the moor, leading over to the small church, the roof of 
which sparkled in the sunlight. Beyond that again, 
and higher up, was the dusky wall of the Manse, over 
which looked some of the windows of the small house. 
One of the panes caught the sun at an angle, and sent 
out into the clear atmosphere a burning ray of light, 
which glittered over the moor like a yellow star. 

At last he came to a dead stop, by the side of a 
piece of coppice. * He heard voices behind him, and, 
turning, saw two or three people - coming up the road. 
Evidently wishing to avoid them, he jumped over the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


198 

low hedge by the side of the path, and made his way a 
little distance into the wood. The thickness and soft- 
ness of the feathery snow deadened every sound 

But when he looked towards the road again, he saw 
that down through the leafless trees it might be possible, 
for any one to descry him ; and so he went on again, 
gradually going down into a slight hollow, until sud- 
denly, he found himself confronted by a man. The two 
looked at each other ; the one alarmed, the other an- 
noyed. At last the elder of the two called out, — 

“ Cot pless me, is it you, indeed and mirover ! 

The younger of the two men did not answer, but 
went past the other, and, after a brief search, picked up 
a bit of string and wire which lay plainly marked on the 
snow. 

“ Neil, Neil, is this how ye spend the Sabbath morn- 
ing ? ” said he. 

“ And wass ye thinking sat bit o’ string wass mine ? ’ 
said Neil, indignantly, “when it is John M’Kendrick 
will ask me to go out and watch sa men frae the iron- 
works sat come up to steal sa rabbits ! ” 

“ Oh !. ye were sent out to watch the poachers ? ” . 

“ Jist sat,” said Neil the Pensioner, looking rather 
uncomfortably at the snare in the other’s hands. 

“ Do ye ken where leears gang to ? ” &id the Whaup, 
for he it was. 

“Toots, toots, man ! ” said the Pensioner, insidiously, 
“ what is sa harm if a body rins against a bit rabbit. 
There is mair o’ them san we can a’ eat ; and when ye 
stand in sa wood, wi’ your legs close, sey rin jist clean 
against your feet, and it will pe no human man could 
keep sa fingers aff. And what for are ye no at sa kirk 
yersel’, Maister Tammas ? ” 

“ Look here, Neil,” said the Whaup, decisively. “ I 
have come down from Glasgow for an hour or, so, and 
nobody in Airlie maun ken anything about it. Do ye 
understand ? As soon as the folk are in church, I am 
going up to the Manse, and I will make Leezibeth swear 
not to tell. As for you, Neil, if ye breathe a word o’t, 
I’ll hae ye put in Ayr gaol for poaching.” 


A DA UGH TER OF HE TH 


199 


It wassna poaching,” said Neil, In feeble protest 
“ Now tell me all about the Airlie folk,” said the 
Whaup. “ What has happened ? What have they been 
doing ? ” 

“Ye will ken sat nothing ever happens in Airlie,” 
said Neil, with a slight touch of contempt. “There 
hassna been a funeral or any foregatherin' for a lang 
time, and there is mair change in you, Maister Tammas 
than in Airlie. You will have pecome quite manly-like, 
and it is only sa short while you will pe away. Mir- 
over, sare is more life going on in Glasgow, eh, Maister 
Tammas ? ” 

The old Pensioner spoke wistfully about Glasgow, 
which he knew had plenty of funerals, marriages, and 
other occasions for dram-drinking. 

“ Is my cousin as much better as they said ? ” 

“ Oh, she will pe much petter, but jist as white as 
the snaw itsel’. I wass up to see her on sa Wednesday 
nicht, and she will say to me, ‘ Neil, where iss your 
fiddle ? ’ but who would ha’ socht o’ taking up sa fiddle ? 
And I did have a dram, too.” 

“ Probably,” said the Whaup. “ Lord Earlshope, 
what has become of him ? ” 

“ Nobody Miill know what hass come to him, for he 
is not here since sey all went away in sa yacht. I tit 
hear, mirover, he wass in France, and sare is no know- 
ing what will happen to a man in sat country, ever 
since Waterloo. But Lord Earlshope will pe safer if 
he will tell them sat he is English. Sey canna bear sa 
Scotch ever since what we did at Waterloo, as I will 
have told you often ; but sa English, I do not sink it 
will matter much harm to them in France.” 

“ I should think not, Neil. It was the Highlanders 
settled them that day, wasn’t it ? ” 

“ I will tell you,” said Neil, drawing himself up to 
his full height. “ It wass Corporal Mackenzie said to 
me, at six o’clock in sa morning, ‘ Neil,’ said he, ‘ sare 
will be no Bonypart at the end o’ this day, if I can get 
at him wis my musket.’ Now Corporal Mackenzie was 
a strong, big man — ” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


r 2QO 


“ Neil, you have told me all that before,” said the 
Whaup. “ I know that you and Corporal Mackenzie took 
a whole battery captive, men, horses, and guns. You 
told me before.” 

“And if a young man hass no pride in what his 
country hass done ; if he will not hear it again and 
again,” said Neil, with indignation, “it is not my fault. 

“ Another time, Neil, we will go over the story from 
end to end. There, the bells have just stopped. I must 
get on now to the Manse. Remember, if you let a hu- 
man being know you saw me in Airlie this day, it will 
be Ayr gaol for ye.” 

The Pensioner laughed, and said, — 

“You wass always a goot hand at a joke, Maister 
Tammas.” 

“Faith, you won’t find it any joke, Neil,” said the 
Whaup, as he bade good-bye to the old man, and went 
off. 

As he crossed the moor, the white snow concealing 
deep ruts filled with crackling ice, into which he fre- 
quently stumbled, — he saw the beadle come out and 
shut the outer door of the church. Not a sign of life 
was now visible as far as the eye could see, only the 
white heights nd hollows with dark^lines of hedges, 
and the gray twilight of the woods. Tme sun still shone 
on the Manse windows, and, as he drew near, a thrush 
flew out of one of the short firs in front of the house, 
bringing down, a lot of snow with the flutter of its 
wings. 

He lifted the latch gently, and walked into the front 
garden. A perfect stillness reigned around the small 
building. Everybody was evidently at church — unless, 
indeed, Leezibeth might have been left with Coquette. 
The Whaup looked over the well-known scene of many 
an exploit. He slipped around the house, too, into the 
back garden. A blackbird flew out of one of the bushes 
with a cry of alarm. A robin came hopping forward on 
the snow, and cocked up its black and sparkling eye to 
get a look at the intruder. There were two or three 
round patches of snow on the walls of the stable, and 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


201 


the Whaup, recognizing these traces, knew that his 
brothers must have been having high jinks there that 
morning before the Manse had awoke. 

Then he went back and cautiously entered the hall. 
What was this low and monotonous sound he heard issu- 
ing from the parlor ? He applied his ear to the door, 
and heard Leezibeth reading out, in a measured and 
melancholy way, a chapter of Isaiah. 

“ What does that mean ? ” thought the Whaup. 
“ She never used to read to herself. Can she be reading 
to Coquette ? and is that the enlivening drone with which 
she seeks to interest an invalid ? ” 

It seemed to him, also, that if Leezibeth were read- 
ing to Coquette, she was choosing passages with a sin- 
ister application. He heard the monotonous voice go 
on : “ Come down, and sit in the dust , O virgin daughter of 
Babylon ; sit on the ground ; there is no throne , O daughter 
of the Chaldeans ; for thou shalt no more be called tender 
. and delicate .” The cheeks of the Whaup began to burn 
red with something else than the cold. He knew not that 
Leezibeth had altogether overcome her old dislike for the 
girl, and waited on her with an animal-like fondness and 
submissiveness. The Whaup took it for granted that 
these texts were chosen as a reproof and admonition — 
part of the old*persecution — and so, without more ado, 
he opened the door brusquely and walked in. 

A strange scene met his eyes. Coquette, pale and 
deathlike, lay on a sofa, with her large dark eyes fixed 
wistfully on the fire. She evidently heard nothing. 
Leezibeth sat on a chair at the table, with a large Family 
Bible before her. There was no trace of a sick room in o 
this hushed and warm apartment, in which the chief light 
was the red glow of the fire ; and yet it was so silent, 
save for the low murmuring of these texts, and the girl 
looked so sad and so phantom-like, that a great chill laid 
hold of his heart. Had they been deceiving him in their 
letters ? 


302 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


CHAPTER XXIX. 
coquette’s dreams. 

The Wbaup went over to the sofa, and knelt down 
on one knee, and took Coquette’s hand. 

“ Coquette,” said he, forgetting to call her by any 
other name, “ are you ill yet ? Why are you so pale ? 
Why did they tell me you were almost better ? ” 

She was pale no longer. A quick flush of surprise 
and delight sprang to her face when she saw him enter, 
and there was a new life and pleasure in her eyes as she 
said rapidly, — 

“ You are come all the way from Glasgow to see me ? 
I was thinking of you, and trying to make a picture of 
Glasgow in the coal and flames of the fire , and I had 
begun to wonder when you would come back, and whether 
it would be a surprise — and — and — I did think I did hear 
something in the snow outside, and it was really you ? 
And how well you look, Tom,” she added, with her dark 
eyes full of a subtle tenderness and joy, regarding the 
young man’s handsome and glowing fcfce. “ How big 
and strong you seem ; but, do you know, you seem to be 
a great deal older ? You have been working very hard, 
Tom ? Ah, I do know ! And you have come to stay 
for awhile'? And what sort of a house have you been 
living in ? And what sort of a place is Glasgow ? Sit 
.down on the hearth-rug and tell me all about it ! ” 

She spoke quite rapidly, and, in her gladness and ex- 
citement, she tried to raise herself up a bit. The Whaup 
instantly offered her- his assistance, and propped up the 
cushions on which her head rested. But why did he not 
speak? He did not answer one of her questions. He 
looked at her in a vague and sad way, as if she were 
some object far away, and she fancied she saw a tremor 
about his lips. Then he said suddenly, with a sharpness 
which startled her, — 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH 


203 


“ Why was I not told ? Wb;y did they make light 
of it ? What have they been doing to let you get as ill 
as this ? ” 

He rose and turned with a frown on his face, as if to 
accuse Leezibeth of being the cause of the girl’s illness. 
Leezibeth had quietly slipped out of the room. 

“ What does that woman mean by persecuting you 
with her texts ? ” he asked. 

Coquette reached out her hand, and brought him 
down to his old position beside her. 

“You must not say anything against Leesiebess ; 
she is my very good friend, and so kind that she does not 
know how to serve me. And you must not look angry 
like that, or I shall be afraid of you ; you seem so much 
greater and older than you were, and I have no longer 
any control over you, as I did use to have when you 
were a boy, you know.” 

The V/haup laughed, and sat down on the hearth-rug 
beside her. The fire heightened the warm glow of his 
face, and touched here and there the brown masses of 
curling hair ; but it was clear that some, firmness, and 
perhaps a touch of sadness, had been added to the' lad’s 
expression during those few months he had been away 
from home. There was a gravity in his voice, too, which 
had replaced the buoyant carelessness of old. 

“ It is comfortable to be near one’s own fire, and to 
see you again, Coquette,” said he. 

“ It is miserable away in Glasgow ? ” she'said. “ This 
morning, when I saw the snow, I thought of you in the 
diear town, and did wonder what you were doing. ‘It 
is Sunday/ I said. * He will go to church in the morn- 
ing, and then he will go outside the town for a walk all 
by himself. He will go through the great gate, and under 
the big walls. All the trees on the side of the 
fortifications will be bare and heavy with snow; and 
the people that pass along the boulevards outside the 
walls will be muffled up and cold. In the gardens of the 
cafes the wooden benches will be wet and deserted. Then 
I see you walk -twice .around the town, and go in again by 
the gate. You go home, you have dinner, you .take a 


204 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


book, perhaps itis'the French Testament, I gave you, and 
you think of us here at Airlie. And when you sit like 
that do you think of the sea, and the old church up here 
and the moor ? and do you see ms as clearly as I can see 
you ? and could you speak to me if only the words would 
carry ? ” 

He listened as if he were listening to the record of a 
dream ; and strangely enough, it coincided with many a 
dream that he had dreamed by himself in the solitude 
of his Glasgow lodging. 

“ What a curious notion of Glasgow you have,” he 
said. “ You seem to think it is like a French town. There 
are no fortifications. There are no walls, no boulevards 
around the place, nor public gardens with benches. 
There is a close network of streets in the middle, and 
these lose themselves on the one side in great masses of 
public works and chimneys that stretch out into dirty 
fields that are sodden with smoke, and on the other side 
into suburbs where the rich people have big houses. 
There is nothing in the way of ramparts or moats or for- 
tifications ; but there is a cannon in the West-End 
Park.” 

“ There is a park, then ? It is not all houses and 
chimneys ? ” 

“ There are two parks that let you see nearly down to 
Airlie. On the clear days I go up to the highest point 
and look away down here, and wonder if I could call to 
Coquette, and if she would hear.” 

“You do think of me sometimes, then ? ” said she 
with the dark eyes grown wistful and a trifle sad. 

Had he not thought of her ! What was it that seemed 
to sweeten his life in the great and weary city but ten- 
der memories of the girl away down in that moorland 
nook ? In the time of constant rain, when the skies 
were dark, and the roaring traffic of the streets ploughed 
its way through sludge and mud, he thought of one spot 
over which, in his imagination, there dwelt perpetual sun- 
shine and a blue sky. When he was sick of the noise 
and the smoke — sick, too, of the loneliness of the great 
city- he could think of the girl far away, whose face 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


205 


v/a's as pure and sweet as a lily in springtime, and the 
very memory of her seemed to lighten his dull little room, 
and bring a fragrance to it. Did not Airlie lie in the direc- 
tion of the sunsets ? Many a time, when he had gone 
nut from the city to the heights of Maryhill or Hillhead, 
the cloudy and wintry afternoon broke into a great mass 
of fire away along the western horizon ; and he loved to 
think that Coquette was catching that glimmer of yellow 
light, and that she was looking over the moor towards 
Arran and the sea. All the sweet influences of life 
hovered around Airlie ; there seemed to be always sun- 
shine there. And when he went back into the gloom of 
the city, it was with a glad heart, for he had got a glimpse 
of the favored land down in the west ; and if you had 
been walking behind a tall and stalwart lad, whose 
shoulders were as flat as a board, and whose brown 
hair was in considerable profusion around a face that 
was full of courage and hope and health, you would have 
heard him sing, high over the roar of the carts and the 
carriages, the tune of “ Drumclog ” — heeding little 
whether any one was listening to his not very melodious 
voice. 

“ You must have been much worse than they told 
me,” he said, gravely. 

“ But I am getting very well now,” said Coquette, 
with a smile ; “and I am anxious to’ be quite better, for 
they did spoil me here. I do not like to be an invalid.” 

“No,” said the Whaup. “I suppose you’d rather 
be scampering about like a wild pony over the moor, 
flinging snowballs, and shouting with laughter.” 

“ I did not know that the wild pony was good at 
snowballs or at laughing,” said Coquette. “ But you 
have not told me anything about Glasgow yet. What 
you do there ? Have you seen Lady Drum since she 
went away from here, after being very kind to me ? 
How do you like the college ? ” 

“ All .that is of no consequence,” said the Whaup. 

“ I did not come here to talk about myself. I came to 
see you, and find out why you were remaining so long 
. . doors.” 


2 00 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


“ But I- do desire you to talk about yourself,” said 
Coquette, with something of her old imperiousness of 
manner. 

“ I sha’n’t,” said the Whaup. “ I have grown older 
than you since I went to Glasgow, and I am not to be 
ordered about. Besides, Coquette. I haven’t above half 
an hour more to stay.” 

" You do not go away to-day?” said Coquette, with 
alarm in her face. 

“ I go away in less than half an hour, or my father 
will be home. Not a human being must know that I 
have come to Airlie to-day. I mean to exact a solemn 
vow from Leezibeth.” 

* “ It is wicked, it is wrong,” said Coquette. 

“ Why noksay it is a beastly shame, as you used to 
do ? ’’ asked the Whaup. 

“ Because I have been reading much since I am ill, 
and have learned much English,” said Coquette ; and 
then she proceeded with her prayers and entreaties that 
the should remain at least over the day. 

But the Whaup was inexorable. He had fulfilled 
the object of his mission, and would depart without any- 
body being a bit the wiser. He had seen Coquette 
again ; had listened to her tender voice, and assured 
himself that she was really convalescent and in good 
spirits. So they chattered in the old familiar fashion, 
as if they were boy and girl together. But all the time 
Coquette was regarding him, and trying to say to her- 
self what the inexpressible something was which had 
made a difference in the Whaup’s manner. He was 
not downcast, on the contrary he talked to her in the 
frank, cheerful, abrupt way which she knew of old ; and 
yet there was a touch of determination, of seriousness 
and decision, which had been quite recently acquired. 
In the mere outward appearance of his face, too, was 
there not some alteration ? 

“ Oh, Tom ! ” she cried, suddenly, “ you have got 
whiskers.” 

“ What if I have ? ” he said, coolly. “ Are you sorry, 
Miss Coquette, that nature has denied to woman that 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


207 


manly ornament * ” and he stroked with satisfaction the 
dusky golden down which was on his cheeks and chin. 

“ I do believe,” said Coquette, “ you did come from 
Glasgow to show me your whiskers.” 

“ You don’t seem to admire them as much as you 
ought to,” he remarked. “ Yet there are many men 
who would give something for these, though they are 
young as yet.” 

“ Oh, you vain boy ! ” said Coquette. " I am 
ashamed of you. And your fashionable cuffs, too, you 
are not a proper student. You ought to be pale and 
gloomy, with shabby clothes and a hungry face. But 
you have no links in your cuffs, Tom,” she added, 
rather shyly. u Would you let me — would you accept 
from me as a present a pair I have got ? ” 

“ And go back to college with a pair of girl’s links 
in my sleeves ! ” said the Whaup. 

“ But they are quite the same,” said Coquette. “ It 
will give me great pleasure if you will take them.” 

She rang for Leezibeth, and bade her go up to her** 
room and fetch those bits of jewelry; and when Leezi- 
beth came back with them Coquette would herself put 
them in her cousin’s sleeves, an operation which, from 
her recumbent position, she effected with a little diffi- 
culty. As the Whaup looked at these pretty ornaments, 
four small and dark-green cameos set in an old-fashioned 
circle of delicately twisted gold wire, he said, — 

“ I wonder you have left yourself Anything, Coquette. 
You are always giving away something or other. I 
think it is because you are so perfect and happy in your- 
self that you don’t need to care for anything else.” 

The girl’s face flushed slightly with evident pleasure ; 
but she said,— 

“ If you do call me, ‘ Coquette,’ I will call you 4 The 
Whaup.’ ” 

“ Who told you to call me that ? ” 

“ I have heard it often. Yet it is not fair. You are 
not any more a wild boy, but a student and a man. 
Neither am I ‘ Coquette.’ ” 

Yet at this very moment the deceitful young creature 


2oS 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


was trying her best to make him forget the peril he was 
in. She knew that if the people returning from church 
were to find him in the house, his secret would be lost, 
and he would be forced to remain. So she talked and 
questioned him without ceasing, and had made him alto- 
gether forget that time was passing rapidly, when 
suddenly there was a noise without. 

“ By Jove ! ” said the Whaup, “ they have come back. 
I must bolt out by the garden and get down the wall. 
Good-bye, Coquette, get well soon, and come up to see me 
in Glasgow.” 

He darted out, and met Leezibeth in the passage. 
He had only time to adjure her not to say he had been 
there, and then he got quickly through to the back-door. 
In rushing out he fairly ran against his brother Wattie, 
and unintentionally sent him flying into an immense 
heap of soft snow which Andrew had swept along the 
path. The Whaup did not pause to look at his brother 
wriggling out, blinded and bewildered, from the snow 
drift. He dashed through the garden, took hold of a 
pear-tree, clambered on to the wall, and dropped into the 
snow-covered meadow outside. He had escaped. 

But Wattie, when he came to himself, was struck 
with a great fear. He ran into the house and into the 
parlor, almost speechless between sobbing and terror, 
as he blurted out, — 

“ Oh, Leezibeth ! oh, Leezibeth ! the deil has been 
in the house. It was the ‘deil himsel’ and he was fleeing 
out at the back-door, and he flung me into the snaw, and 
then gaed up into the air, wi’ a crack like thunder. 
It was the deil himsel,’ Leezibeth, what’ll I dae ? what’ll 
I dae ? ” 

“ Havers, havers, havers ! ” cried Leezibeth, taking 
him by the shoulders and bundling him out of the room. 
“ Do ye think the deil would meddle wi’ you,? Gang butt 
the house, and take the snaw off your clathes, and let 
the deil alane ! Ma certes, a pretty pass if we are to be 
frightened out o’ our senses because a laddie ' tumbles 
in the snaw ! ” 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


209 


CHAPTER XXX. 

ON THE WAY. 

The Whaup got clear away from the people coming out 
of church by striking boldly across the moor. His back 
was turned to the sea, his face to the east ; he was on 
his way to Glasgow. Briskly and lightly he strode over 
the crisp, dry snow, feeling but little discomfort, except 
from some premonitory qualms of hunger ; and at length 
he got into the broad highway which follows the chan- 
nel of the Ayrshire lochs from Dairy on by the valley 
of the Black Cart towards Paisley. 

It was a bright, clear day, and he was in th.e best of 
spirits. Had he not talked for a brief while with Co- 
quette, and seen for himself that there was a glimpse of 
the old tenderness and sauciness and liveliness in her soft 
and merry black eye ? He had satisfied himself that she 
was really getting better ; and that on some distant day 
of the springtime, when a breath of the new, sweet air 
would come in to stir the branches of the trees in the 
West-End Park, he would have the honor and delight of 
escorting his foreign cousin towards that not very ro- 
mantic neighborhood, and pointing out to her the spot 
in the horizon under which Arlie was supposed to lie. 

When would the springtime come ? he thought, as 
he began to munch a biscuit. Was it possible that his 
imaginative picture would come true ? Would Coquette 
actually be seen in Glasgow streets, crossing over in 
front of the Exchange, walking down Buchanan Street, 
and perhaps up on the little circle around the flag in the 
South-Side Park ? Would Coquette really and truly walk 
into that gloomy square inside the old College, and look 
at the griffins, and perhaps shyly steal a glance at the 


210 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


red-coated young students lounging around ? Glasgow 
began to appear less dull to him. 'A glamour fell over 
the gray thoroughfares, and even the dinginess of the 
High Street became picturesque. 

“ Why, all the sparrows in the street will know that 
Coquette has come ; and the young men in the shops 
will brighten themselves up ; and Lady Drum will take 
her to the theatre, in spite of my father ; and all the 
bailies will be asking Sir Peter for an introduction. 
And Coquette will go about like a young princess, hay- 
ing nothing in the world to do but to be pleased ! ” 

So he struck again with his stick at the snow on the 
hedge, and quickened his pace, as though Glasgow were 
now a happy end to his journey. And he lifted up his 
voice, and sang aloud, in his joy, the somewhat desola- 
ting tune of “ Coleshill ” even as the Germans, when at 
their gayest, invariably begin to sing, — 

“Ich weiss nicht was soil es bedeuten, 

Dass ich so traurig bin.” 

The Whaup had not the most delicately modulated 
voice, but, such as it was he had plenty of it. 

Presently, however, he stopped, for right in front of 
him there appeared a solitary horseman. There was 
something in the rider’s figure familiar to him. Who was 
this that dared to invade the quiet of these peaceful' dis- 
tricts by appearing on horseback on a Sunday morning ? 
As he drew near the Whaup suddenly remembered that 
not a word had been said by Coquette of Lord Earlshope. 

The sunlight faded utterly out of the landscape. All 
the joyous dreams he had been dreaming of Coquette 
coming to Glasgow grew faint and vanished. He had 
quite forgotten Lord Earlshope ; and now, it became 
evident, here he was, riding along the main road in the 
direction of Airlie. 

As Lord Earlshope came near, he drew up his horse. 
He was clad, the Whaup observed, in a large Russian- 
looking overcoat, which had plenty of warm fur around 
the neck of it. He looked, indeed, more like a foreigner 


A DAUGHTER OR HE TH 


211 


than a country gentleman riding along an Ayrshire road 
toward his own estates. 

No less surprised was Lord Earlshope to meet his 
boon companion of old. 

“ Why,” he said, “ I thought you had left Airlie.” 

“ I thought the same of you,” said Mr. Tom. 

Lord Earlshope laughed. 

“ I am obeying a mere whim The said, “ in riding down 
to Earlshope. I shall probably not stay an hour. How 
are all the people in Airlie ? ” 

“ I don’t know,” said the Whaup ; “ I have myself 
been there for about an hour, and no more.” 

“ At least you know how your cousin, Miss Cassilis, 
is ? ” said Lord Earlshope, in a grave tone of voice. 

“ Yes,” said the Whaup, “ she is still an invalid, you 
know, but she is on the fair way to a complete recovery.” 

“ I am glad of that,” said Lord Earlshope, hastily. 
“ I am glad of that, for I may not be able to call to see 
how she is. In fact, I am rather pressed for time this 
morning. You are sure she is getting well ? ” 

“ Yes, I hope so,” said the Whaup. 

“ And will soon be about again ? ” 

“Yes, I hope so,” said the Whaup, regarding with 
some curiosity the engrossed and absent way in which 
the other put hL rapid questions. 

Lord Earlshope turned around his horse. 

“ Look here,’’ he said, “ I don’t wish to be seen about 
this place and I don’t think I shall go on to Airlie. I 
only wanted ttf make some inquiries about your cousin. 
What you tell me has satisfied me that she is not so ill 
as I had feared. Where are you going?” 

“ I am walking to Glasgow,” said the Whaup. 

“ To Glasgow,” said the other. “ You won’t be there 
before night ! ” 

“ That is not of much consequence.” 

“ I will go to Glasgow with you, if you like. We can 
take the horse alternately.” 

“ The horse would think you were mad if you were to 
walk him all the way up to Glasgow in this snow,” said 
the Whaup. 



212 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


“ True, true,” said .Lord Earlshope, absently. I 
shall strike across country for Largs, and put up there. 
You saw your cousin to-day ? ” 

“ Yes.”' 

“ And she is not very much of an invalid ? ” 

“ Well, I hope she is getting better/’ said the Whaup. 

“ Thank you, thank you,” said Lord Earlshope. 
“ You need not say you have seen me. Good-day to 
you ! ” 

So he turned his horse once more, and rode on, with 
an obviously preoccupied air. 

“ There goes a man,” said the Whaup, watching him 
disappear, “ as mad as a March hare, and madder.” 

Yet, as he walked on, he found that this brief inter- 
view had strangely disquieted him. What business had 
Lord Earlshope to be asking so particularly about Co 
quette ? Why was he riding down on this Sunday morn 
ing for the professed purpose of making inquiries about 
her ? Nay, why should he not wish to be seen ? It 
was evident that in Airlie, where no one had seen his 
lordship for many a day, there was no expectation of 
him. The more Tom Cassilis considered the matter, 
the more profound became his annoyance over the whole 
affair. 

It now seemed to him, looking back over the brief 
time that he had spent with Coquette, 'that the most 
grateful feature of the interview was the fact that Lord 
Earlshope had not been mentioned. He had been quite 
forgotten, indeed. There might have been no Lord 
Earlshope in the world, so thoroughly had he been ig- 
nored in that quiet and confidental chat which took place 
in the Minister’s parlor. Yet here he was, riding down 
by himself within a few miles of Airlie, and with his 
professed object the wish to see or hear something of 
Coquette. 

The rest of that long walk was not pleasant to the 
young man. The whole day seemed to have become 
sombre and gloomy. Why was he compelled to return 
like a slave to the labor and the loneliness of a strange 
town, when others had the free country before them, to 

A . L 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH 


213 


choose their place of rest as they liked ? It seemed to 
him that he was turning his back now on all that was 
beautiful and- pleasant in the world, and that Lord Earls- 
hope had been left there with such intentions in his 
heart as were still a mystery. The Whaup began to for- 
get that he had fraternized with Lord Earlshope on 
board the Caroline. He remembered no longer that he 
had satisfied himself of that gentleman’s being a far 
more agreeable and honest person than the popular 
voice of the district would admit. Lord Earlshope’s 
kindness to them all, his excessive and almost distant 
courtesy to Coquette and her uncle, were effaced from 
his recollection ; and he knew only that before him lay 
the long and winding and dreary road to Glasgow, while 
behind him were the pleasant places about Airlie, and 
Coquette, and the comfort of the Manse, towards which 
Lord Earlshope was perhaps now riding. 

It was late at night when the Whaup, footsore and 
tired, reached his lodgings in George Street, Glasgow. 
His landlady had not returned from evening service ; 
the solitary domestic of the house was out ; there was 
no one in the gaunt and dismal house, which he entered 
by means of a latch-key. He set to work to kindle a 
fire ; but the fire went out, and in the middle of his 
labors he dropped into a chair and fell fast asleep. The 
fatigues of the day caused him to sleep on in the dark- 
ness and the cold ; and the other people of the house, 
coming in later, knew nothing of his being in his room. 

In the middle of the night he awoke. He was stiff 
with cold. He sought for matches, and could not find 
them ; so he tumbled into bed in the dark, with his whole 
frame numbed and his heart wretched. Nor did he for- 
get his miseries in sleep ; there was no sleep for him. 
He lay through the night and tossed about ; and if for 
a moment he fell Into a sort of doze, it was to start up 
again with a great fear that something had happened 
at Airlie. In these periods of half-forgetfulness, and 
during the interval when he lay broadly awake, the 
nightmare that haunted him was the figure of the soli- 
tary rider he had met on the Dairy Road. What was 


214 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


the meaning of those anxious inquiries Lord Earlshope 
had then made ? Why was he disinclined to go on to 
his own place, and be seen by the people of Airlie ? 
Why go to Largs ? Largs, as the Whaup lay and re- 
membered, was not more than fifteen miles from Airlie ? 
Would Lord Earlshope loiter about there in the hope of 
seeing Coquette by stealth ? And why should he wish 
to see her ? So the weary hours of the night passed, 
and the gray and wintry dawn began to tell upon the 
window of his room. The questions, with all their anx- 
ieties and doubts, remained unanswered , and there had 
come another gloomy day, demanding its quota of work. 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

AN AWFUL VISITOR 

It became noised abroad that the devil had been seen 
in Airlie. The Minister’s sons not only took up the 
story which had been told them by their brother Wattie. 
but added to it and embellished it until it assumed quite 
dramatic proportions, and was picturesquely minute in de- 
tail. The rumor that grew and widened in the village was 
that, on the Sabbath forenooon, a black Something had 
been seen wandering about in the snow around the Manse. 
The boys, on returning from church, had heard mysterious 
voices in the deep silence of the small garden. Then 
Wattie, drawing near to the back-door, had suddenly been 
blinded by a rush of wind ; flames darted out from the 
house and surrounded him ; the current of air drove him 
into a snowdrift ; and the awful Something, with a shriek 
of fiendish laughter, had gone past him and disappeared, 
and there was a low rumble as of distant thunder echo- 
ing along the hollow stillness of the sky. 

That was the rumor of Sunday night and the follow- 
ing morning ; but during the day of Monday there were 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIi. 


2I 5 


bruited around some strange stories of mysterious foot- 
prints which had been perceived in the snow. A track had 
been observed leading over the moor towards the garden- 
wall, and suddenly stopping there. Now, not only was it 
impossible for any being of mortal shape and limbs to 
leap that high wall, but there was this further peculiarity 
remarked, that the footprints formed but one line. A 
slight fall of snow, it is true, during the morning had 
somewhat blurred the outline of these marks, but it was 
confidently asserted that they were not such as had ever 
been made by the impress of a human foot. 

Towards nightfall Mr. Gillespie, having finished off 
some parochial business, deemed it his duty to go up to 
the Manse to communicate these disturbing stories to the 
Minister. The Schoolmaster had a visitor that evening, 
Mr Cruikshanks, the Tailor, who sometimes dropped in 
to have a glass of toddy and a chat over public affairs. 
The Tailor was a small, thin/black-a-viced man, of highly 
nervous temperament, who was suspected of having been 
a Chartist, and who had been known at a public meeting- 
in Saltcoats, for he was a great orator, to express views 
which were of a wild and revolutionary nature. Never- 
theless, up here inAirlie he conducted himself in a fitting 
manner, went regularly to church, observed the Com- 
munion, never failed to have the mended pair of breeks 
or the new coat home in good time ; and, if he did sym- 
pathize with the French Republicans, said little about it. 
Indeed, it was not to be controverted that the Pensioner 
knew far more about F ranee and the French than the 
excitable little Tailor ; for the farmer had driven whole 
regiments of prisoners before him like sheep, and could 
tell you how the contemptible and weakly things asked 
for water and bread, using language of their own for want 
of a better education. 

Mr. Cruikshanks had also heard the ugly rumors 
current in the village, and quite agreed that the School- 
master should go up to the Manse. 

“ Not,” said he, with an oratorical gesture, “ because 
ye believe in them, sir ; but because' the Minister maun 
be warned to set his face against the superstitions o’ the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIf. 


2 16 

vulgar. The dawn o’ leeberty, Mr. Gillespie, though oft 
delayed, is never won ; and the triumph o’ the great 
principles o’ rationalism that is progressin’ faurand wide.’' 

“ Rationalism ! rationalism ! ” said the Schoolmaster, 
in dismay. “ Do ye ken what ye’er saying,’ man ? ” 

“ Which is not the rationalism o’ the vulgar, sir,” 
observed the Tailor, calmly. “Tis of another complexion 
and pale cast of thought. It has naething to do wi’ relee- 
gion. It is the new spirit, the blawin’ up o’ the auld 
fossils and formations, the light that never was in 
poet’s dream. But I will gang wi’ ye, sir to the Minister’s, 
if ye are so minded.” 

The two went out together. By the help of the red 
light from the small windows they picked their way 
through the muddy and half-mqlted snow of the village 
streets. When they had got clear of the small houses, 
they found the thick snow -lying crisp and dry on the 
highway, and it needed all their watchfulness to decipher, 
by the aid of the starlight, the line of the moorland road. 
There was no one abroad at that honr. The villagers 
had been glad to get into their warm homes out of the 
cold and frosty wind that blew along the white surface 
of the snow. From over the broad moor there came not 
the least sound ; and the only living thing visible seemed 
the countless myriads of stars, which shone coldly and 
clearly through the frosty atmosphere. The School- 
master and his companion spoke but little ; they were too 
much engaged in finding the path through the snow. 

Suddenly the Tailor stopped, and involuntarily laid 
his hand on his neighbor’s arm. 

“ What is it ? ” said the Schoolmaster, with a start. 

But he had scarcely uttered the words when he saw 
what had caused his companion to stand still, with his 
face looking over the moor. Before them, a dark mass 
in the starlight, stood Airlie Church, and at one end of 
it — that farthest from the door — the windows seemed to 
be lighted up with a dull red glow. 

“ Wha can be in the kirk at this time o’ night ? ” said 
the Schoolmaster, forgetting to choose proper English 
phrases. 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


2 I 7 

The Tailor said nothing. He was thinking of Allo- 
way Kirk and the wild revels that had been celebrated 
there. His talk about the superstitions of the vulgar 
had gone from his memory ; he only saw before him, 
over a waste of snow and under a starlit sky, a church 
which could for no possible reason be occupied, but which 
had its windows touched from the inside with a glow of 
light. 

“ Man and boy,” said the Schoolmaster, “ I have lived 
in Airlie these twenty years, and never saw the like. It 
is a fearsome licht that. It would be our duty to go and 
see what it means 

“There I dinna agree wi’ ye,” said the Tailor, quite 
fiercely. “ What business is it o’ ours ? Folks dinna 
sweeten their ain yill by meddlin’ wi’ other folk’s barrels. 
I am for lettin’ the kirk alane. Doubtless it is lichted 
up for some purpose. Why, dinna ye ken that the Min- 
ister’s niece was brought up as a Roman ; and th it the 
Catholics like to hae a’ manner o’ mysterious services in 
the dead o’ nicht ? ” 

This explanation seemed to afford the Tailor very 
great relief. He insisted upon it even to the point of 
losing his temper. What right had the Schoolmaster to 
interfere with other people’s religion ? Why didn’t he 
do as he would be done by ? 

“ But we ought to see what it is,” said the School- 
master. 

“Ye may gang .if ye like,” said the Tailor, firmly. 
“ Deil the bit o’ me ’ll steer ! ” _ 

The Schoolmaster drew back. He was not going to 
cross the moor alone — especially with those rumors of 
mysterious footprints about. 

“ Perhaps ye are right, Mr. Cruikshanks,” he said. 
“ But we maun gang on and tell the Minister.” 

“Surely, surely,” said the Tailor, with eagerness. 
“ We hae a sacred duty to perform. We maun get lights 
to see our way, and the keys o’ the kirk, and the Minister 
and Andrew Bogue will come wi’ us. The notion o’ its 
being witches — ha ! ha ! — it is quite rideeklous. Such 
superstitions, sir, have power wi’ the vulgar, but wi’ men 


2l8 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


like you and me, Mr. Gillespie, wha have studied such 
things, and appeal to the licht o’ reason, it is not for us 
to give way to idle fears. No ; we will go up to the door 
o’ the kirk, and we will have the matter explained on 
rationalistic principles ” 

“ I wish, Mr. Cruikshanks,” said the Schoolmaster, 
with a sort of nervous anxiety and anger, “ ye wouldna 
talk and talk about your rationalism and your rationalistic 
principles. I declare, to hear ye, ane would think there 
wasna a heeven above us.” 

But the Tailor continued his discourse on the sub- 
lime powers of reason, and waxed more and more buoy- 
ant and eloquent, until, the two having reached the gate 
of the Manse, the Tailor turned upon his companion, 
and with scorn hinted that he, the Schoolmaster, had 
succumbed to childish fears on seeing the kirk windows 
lit up. 

“ What more simple,” said the Tailor, in his grandest 
manner, “than to have walked up to the door, gone in, 
and demanded to know what was the reason o’ the licht ? 
That is what commonsense and reason would dictate ; 
but when fears and superstitions rise and dethrone the 
monarch from his state, the lord of all is but a trumpery 
vassal, the meanest at his gate.” 

The Schoolmaster was too indignant, and perhaps 
too much relieved on finding himself within the shelter 
of the Manse wall, to reply. The two neighbors walked 
up to the door of the Manse, looking rather supiciously 
at the gloomy corners around them, and the black shad- 
ows of the trees, and knocked. The door was opened 
half an inch. 

“ Who’s there ? ” said Leezibeth. 

“ Me,” said the Schoolmaster. 

“ Who’s me ? ” said the voice from within, the door 
being still kept on the point of shutting. 

“ Bless my life and body ! ” cried the Schoolmaster, 
provoked out of all patience. “ Is this a night to keep 
a human being starving in the snaw ? Let us in, 
woman ! ” 

With which he drove the door before him and entered 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


219 


the passage, confronting the terrified Leezibeth, who 
dropped her candle there and then, and left the place 
in darkness. 

The Minister opened the parlor door, and the light 
streamed out on the strangers. Without being asked, 
the Schoolmaster and the Tailor stumbled into the 
room, and stood, with eyes dazed by the light, alter- 
nately looking at the Minister and at Coquette, who lay 
on the sofa with an open. book beside her. 

“What is the matter? what is the matter?” said 
the Minister; for both the men seemed speechless 
with fear. 

“ Has she no been at the kirk the nicht?” said the 
Tailor. 

“ Who ?” said the Minister, beginning to think 
that both of his visitors must be drunk. 

“ Her,” said the Tailor, “your niece, sir, Miss 
Cassilis.” 

“ At the kirk ? She has not been out of the house 
for months.” 

“ But — but — but there is somebody in the kirk at 
this present meenute,” said the Tailor, breathlessly. 

“Nonsense!” said the Minister, with some im- 
patience. “ What do you mean ? ” 

“ As sure as daith, sir, the kirk’s in a lowe ! ” blurted 
out the Tailor again, though he still kept his eyes 
glaring in a fascinated way on Coquette. 

To tell the truth, Coquette began to laugh. The 
appearance and talk of the two strangers, whether the 
result of drink or of fright, were altogether so abnormal 
and ludicrous that, for the life of her, she could not keep 
from smiling. Unfortunately, this conduct on her part, 
occurring at such a moment, seemed to confirm the 
suspicions of the two men. They regarded her as if 
she were a witch who had been playing pranks with 
them on the moor, had whipped herself home, and was 
now mocking them. Vague recollections of “ Tam o’ 
Shanter” filled their minds with forebodings. Who 
knew but that she was connected with these mysterious 
things of which the village had been talking ? Why 


220 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


should the stories have centred upon the Manse ? Was 
she not a Roman and a foreigner,' a creature whose dark 
eyes were full of concealed meaning, of malicious mis- 
chief, of unholy laughter ? No wonder there were 
strange footprints about, or that the kirk was “ in a 
lowe” at midnight. 

The Minister abruptly recalled them from their 
dazed and nervous speculations by demanding to know 
what they had seen. Together they managed to pro- 
duce the story in full ; and the Minister said he would 
himself at once go over the moor to the kirk. 

“ Micht not Andrew Bogue come wi’ a lantern ? ” 
said the Tailor ; and the Minister at once assented. 

With that the spirits of the two heroes rose. They 
would inquire into this matter. They would have no 
devilish cantrips going on in the parish, if they could 
help it. And so they once more sallied out into the 
cold night air, and, with much loud talking and con- 
fident suggestion struck across the snow of the moor. 

As they drew near to the small church the talking 
died down. The red light was clearly seen in the 
windows. Andrew Bogue, who had been a few steps 
ahead of the party, inorder to show them the way„ 
suggested that he should fall behind, so that the light 
would shine more clearly around their feet. Against 
this both the Schoolmaster and the Tailor strongly 
protested ; and the discussion ended by the Minister 
impatiently taking the lamp into his own hand and go- 
ing forward. The posse comitatus followed, close, and 
in deep silence. Indeed, there was not a sound 
heard, save the soft yielding of the crisp snow ; and in 
the awful stillness, under the great canopy of sparkling 
stars, the red windows of the small and dark building- 
glimmered in front of them. 

The Minister walked up to the door, the others 
keeping close behind him. He endeavored to open it; 
it was locked. 

“ The keys, Andrew,” he said. 

“ I — I — I dinna bring any keys,” said Andrew, testily. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


221 


He was angry with his tongue for stammering, and 
with his throat for choking. 

“ And how did ye expect us to get in ? ” said the 
Minister. 

“ Why, I thocht — I thocht that if there was any- 
body in the kirk, the door would be open,” said An- 
drew, in a querulous whisper. 

“ Go back to the Manse and get them,” said the 
Minister, perhaps with concealed irony. 

“ By myseP ” said Andrew. “ Across the moor by 
myseP ? What for does any human being want to get 
into the kirk ? Doubtless there are some bits o’ wan- 
derin’ bodies inside ; would ye turn them out in the 
could ? If ye do want to look into the kirk, there is a 
ladder at ye can pit against the wa\” 

Andrew was ordered to bring the ladder ; but he 
professed, his inability to carry it. The Schoolmaster 
and the Tailor went with him to a nook behind some 
back-door, and presently reappeared — walking stealthily 
and conversing in whispers, with the ladder, which they 
placed against the wall. The Schoolmaster, with a 
splendid assumption of bravery, clambered up the steps, 
and paused when the tip of his nose received the light 
from the panes. The others awaited his report breath- 
lessly. 

“ I canna see anything,” he whispered, coming down 
rather rapidly. 

But where the Schoolmaster had gone the Tailor 
would go. Mr. Cruikshanks went bravely up the ladder, 
and peered in at the window. What could be the mean- 
ing of this ghastly stillness, and the yellow light burn- 
ing somewhere in the church ? He had heard of awful 
scenes, in which corpse-lights had come forth all over a 
churchyard, and vague forms flitted about, in the midst 
of peals of demoniac laughter. But here was no sound, 
no movement, only the still glare of a ruddy light, 
coming from whence he knew not. 

But what was that echoed along the empty church ? 
The Tailor grasped the top rung of the ladder. He 
would have given worlds to have got down, but if he had 


222 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TTJ 


let go his trembling legs would have thrown him back- 
ward. Something was moving in the dim and solitary 
church ; his breath came and went, his head swam around, 
— the ladder trembled with his grasp. Suddenly there 
was a startling cry, an awful and appalling shriek from 
the Schoolmaster, as he turned to find, in the darkness, 
a figure approaching him. Andrew fell back from the - 
foot of the ladder ; and the next moment down came the 
ladder and the Tailor together with a crash upon Andrew 
and his lamp, burying the one in the snow ^nd smashing 
the other to pieces. A succession of piercing cries from 
the Tailor broke the silence of the moor ; until the Min- 
ister, dragging him out of the snow, bade him cease his 
howling. The Schoolmaster had abruptly retreated ; 
until the group of explorers, partly on the ground and 
partly upright, was approached by this dusky figure. 

“ What is that ? ” said the Schoolmaster, in an agon- 
ized whisper. “ Oh, what is’t ? what is’t ? What can 
it be, sir ? Speak till’t ! ” 

The Minister, having put the Tailor on his legs, 
though they were scarcely able to support him, turned 
to the new-comer, and said, — 

“ Well, who are you ? ” 

“ Me, sir ? Me ? ” said a deep bass voice, in rather 
an injured tone, “ I’m Tammas Kilpatrick.” 

“What! Kilpatrick the joiner?” said the School- 
master. 

“ Well, I hope sae,” said the man, “ and I dinna ken 
what for ye should run away frae a man as though he 
was a warlock.” 

“.But how came ye in the kirk at this time o’ night ?” 
said the Minister. 

“ Deed, ye may well ask,” said the worthy joiner, “ for 
it’s little my maister allows me for overtime ; and if he 
will put me to jobs like this after my day’s work is done, 

I hope he’ll gie me some fire and better company than a 
wheen rats and mice. Will Mr. Bogue take hame the 
keys that my maister got frae his wife this afternoon ?” 

But Mr. Bogue was still in the snow, groaning. 
When they picked him up they found the lantern had 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


22 3 


severely cut his nose, which was bleeding freely. Where- 
upon the Schoolmaster waxed valiant, and vouchsafed to 
the joiner an explanation^ of the panic, which, he said, 
was the work “ o’ that poor body, the Tailor. And, mark 
me, Mr. Kilpaitrick,” he added, “ it is not every man that 
would have insisted on seeing to the bottom o’ this maitter, 
as I did this night. It was our duty to investigate, or, 
as I might say, to examine, into what might have raised 
superstitious fears in Airlie, especially as regards the 
stories that have been about. It shames me that, as we 
were proceeding in a lawful, or, I might say, legitimate, 
manner to inquire, that poor body, the Tailor, should have 
set up an eldritch screech, as if he was possessed. He 
is a poor body, that Tailor, and subject to the fears of 
the vulgar. If ye hear the neighbors talk o' this night’s 
doings, ye will be able, Mr. Kilpaitrick, to say who be- 
haved themselves like men ; and I'm thinking that we 
will be glad o’ your company across the moor, and ye will 
then come in and hae a glass o’ toddy wi’ us, Mr. Kil- 
paitrick. As for the Tailor there, the poor craytur has 
scarcely come to his senses yet ; but we maun take him 
safe hame.” 


CHAPTER XXXII 

IN THE SPRINGTIME. 

Why was there no mention of Lord Earlshope in 
the letters from Airlie which reached the Whaup in his 
Glasgow lodging ? The lad was too proud to ask ; but 
he many a time wondered whether Lord Earlshope was 
now paying visits to the Manse, as in the bygone time 
and watching the progress of Coquette’s -restoration to 
health. Indeed, the letters that came up from the moor- 
land village were filled with nothing but Coquette, and 
Coquette, and Coquette. The boys now openly called 


224 


A DAUGHTER OF IIETH, 


her by this familiar name ; and her sayings and doings, 
the presents she made them, and the presents she prom- 
ised to give them when she should go to Glasgow oc- 
cupied their correspondence almost to the exclusion of 
stories of snow battles with the lads of the village. 

At last the Whaup wrote and asked what Lord Earls - 
hope was doing. 

The reply came that he had not been in Airlie since 
the previous autumn. 

“ Why, he must be mad ! ” said the Whaup to himself. 
“ Not go on to his own house when he was within two 
or three miles of it ! These French novels have turned 
his head ; we shall have him presently figuring as the 
hero of a fine bigamy case, of poisoning himself with 
charcoal fumes, or doing something equally French. 
Perhaps he has done something desperate, in his youth, 
and now reads French novels to see what they have to 
say on the subject.’* 

Among other intelligence sent him by his correspon- 
dents during the winter was that on the morning of 
New-year’s Day there had arrived at the Manse, directed 
to that young lady, a; large and magnificent volume of 
water-color sketches of the Loire. The grandeur of this 
book, its binding and its contents, was all a wonder at 
the Manse ; and the youngest of the Whaup’ s brothers 
expressed his admiration in these terms : — 

“It is most wonderful. The boards is made oftortis- 
shell, with white say tin and wreaths of silk roses and 
flowers in different colors all around it. There is a back 
of scaurlet marrocca leather, with gilt. And she put it 
on the table, and when she began to turn it over she 
laughed, and clapped her hands thegither, and was fair 
daft with looking at it ; but, as she went on, she stopped, 
and we all saw, that she was greetin’. I suppose it was 
some place she kenned. 

No one knew definitely who had .sent this gorgeous 
book, not even Coquette herself ; but the popular opinion 
of the Manse settled that it must have been Lady Drum 
There were only two people, widely apart, who had an- 
other suspicion in the matter and these two were Co- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


quette and the Whaup. Meanwhile, if the book had 
come from Lord Earlshope, it was accompanied by no 
sign or token from him ; and, indeed, his name was now 
scarcely ever mentioned in the Manse. 

And so the long and hard winter passed away ; ancf 
there came at last a new light into the air, and soft and 
thawing winds from over the sea. The spring had ar- 
rived, with its warm and sweet breezes ; and over all the 
countryside there began to peep out tiny buds of brown 
and green, with here and there, in many a secret nook 
and corner, the pale yellow wonder of a flower. And at 
last, too, Coquette got out of the house, and began to 
drink in new life from the mild breezes and the clear 
blue-white air. Her eyes were perhaps a trifle wistful, 
of even sad, when she first got abroad again ; for the 
springtime revives many memories, and ij not always a 
glad season ; but in a little while the stirring of new 
health and blood in Coquette’s pale cheeks began to re- 
call her to her usual spirits. The forenoon was her 
principal time for going out ; and, as the boys were then 
at Mr. Gillespie’s school, she learned to wander about 
alone, discovering all manner of secret dells about the 
woods where the wild flowers were sure to be found. 
Many and many a day she came home laden with hya- 
cinths and violets and anemones, and the white stars of 
the stitchwort ; and she brought home, too, a far more 
valuable and beautiful flower in the bloom which every 
one saw gathering on her cheek. Sometimes she pre- 
vailed on her uncle to accompany her ; and she would 
take the old man’s arm and lead him into strange wood- 
land places of which he had but little knowledge. Leezi- 
beth was so delighted to see the girl become her former 
self that she was more than usually pugnacious towards 
Andrew, as if that worthy but sour-tempered man had 
been harboring dark projects against the girl's health. 
Leezibeth, indeed, had wholly gone over to the enemy ; 
and Andrew sadly shook his head and comforted himself 
with prophecies of evil and lamentation: 

One day Coquette had wandered down to the very wood 
in which the Whaup had caught Neal Lamont poaching. 


226 ' A DAUGHTER OF HETir. 

She had been exceptionaTlyflucky in her quest for new 
flowers ; and had got up a quite respectable bouquet for 
the study mantelpiece. Then she had that morning re- 
ceived from France a little song of Gounod’s, which was 
abundantly popular there at the time. So, out of mere 
lightness of heart, she came walking through the wood, 
and sang to herself carelessly as she went, — 

“ La voile ouvre son aile 

La brise va soufilex* — ei* — er — er — 

when suddenly her voice died down. Who was that 
coming along the road in the direction of Arlie. A faint- 
ness came over her, she caught hold of a branch of a fir, 
and then, with a half-instinctive fear, she drew back with- 
in the shelter of a few tall stems. It was Lord Earls- 
hope who was passing along the road, walking slowly 
and idly, and apparently taking no notice of the objects 
around him. 

Her heart beat quickly, and her w r hole frame trem- 
bled, as she remained cowering until even the sound of 
his footsteps had died away. Then she stole out of the 
wood, and hurriedly followed a circuitous route which 
landed her breathless, and yet thankful, within the safety 
of the Manse. He had not observed her. 

But he was in the neighborhood. He had returned 
from abroad. Perhaps he would go away again without 
even seeing her and speaking to her for a moment, un- 
less, indeed, she happened to be out the next forenoon 
and meet him. 

“ You must not fall back into any of your dull moods, 
Catherine,” said the Minister, in a cheerful way, to her 
that evening, as he happened to perceive her unwonted 
silence, and the pensive look of her eyes. 



A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

OVER THE MOOR. 

Coquette's sleep that night was full of dreams of a 
meeting with Lord Earlshope ; and in the morning she 
awoke with a confused sense of having been wandering 
with him in a strange land, which had a sombre sky over 
it, and all around it the moaning of the sea. She seemed 
to have a notion that the place was familiar to her ; and 
gradually out of her memory she was able to recall the 
features of a certain gloomy bay, overshadowed by tall 
mountains. 

“ I will remember no more of it,” she said to her- 
self, dreamily. “ That island, is it always coming back ? ” 

Yet those dreams left a troubled impression behind 
them ; and she began to think with some foreboding and 
fear of a possible meeting with Lord Earlshope if she 
went out for her accustomed walk. Dared she meet 
him ! Or what if he were here only for a brief time, and 
went away without a word ? As she calculated anxiously 
the probabilities of his going, and tried to decide whether 
she should avoid meeting him, a great dash of rain 
smote on the windows of the Manse, a glimmer of morn- 
ing sunlight also struck the panes, and a blustering 
April wind blew about the chimneys. 

“ Rain ! ” she cried, as though she were glad of any- 
thing to resolve her anxious doubts. “ Then I do not 
go.” 

She got up and dressed quickly. There were no blinds 
needed for the small windows that looked across the 
moor. During the progress of her toilette she could see 
the wild glare of the spring sunshine that chased the 
rapid and riven clouds which the wind was blowing over 
the sea. On they came in thunderous masses and filmy 
streaks, here dark and rainy, there struck into silver by 
the sunlight ; while from time to time there was a period 



228 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


of threatening gloom, followed by the heavy pattering 
of a shower on the window and slates, and then the wild 
yellow light again shining out on the dripping trees, oil 
the wet nioor, and on the far blue plain that lay around 
Arran. 

“ You are in much better spirits this morning,” said 
the Minister at breakfast, after Coquette had been lectur- 
ing the boys in a very grand and mock-heroic fashion. 

“ Yes, in spite of your abominating weather,” she re- 
plied. “ Last night, still and clear, this morning a hurri- 
cane ! Why is your weather so wild, and your Scotch 
people so quiet ? They are not stormy, no bad temper, 
no fits of passion, all smooth arid serious and solemn, as 
if they did go to a churchyard;’ 

“ And that is where we all of us are going, whether 
in Scotland or France,” said the Minister, with a serious 
smile. 

“ Yet why always think of it ? ” said Coquette, lightly. 
“Why you make the road to the churchyard a church- 
yard also ? No, it is not reasonable. We shall be pleas- 
ant, and amuse ourselves in the meantime. Ah ! now do 
look at the faces of all those boys ; do they think me 
wicked ? ” 

Indeed, the row of solemn and awestruck faces which 
listened to Coquette’s Sadduceeism provoked her into a 
fit of laughter, which Leezibeth checked by coming into 
the room and asking abruptly if more tea were wanted. 

Coquette had apparently forgotten that she had been 
troubled that morning about Lord Earlshope. The bois- 
terous weather had prevented her going out, so that no 
choice remained to her. But when, after the boys had 
been despatched to school, she was left to herself and 
her solitary employment at the piano, her vivacity of the 
morning died away. Without any intention she wan- 
dered into melancholy strains, and played half-forgotten 
ballad-airs which she had heard among the peasantry of 
Mcrbihan. She began to cast wistful glances towards 
the windows and the changeable landcape outside. At 
last she gave up the piano, and went to one of the win- 
dows and took a seat there. The intervals of sunlight 


4 DAUGHTER OF HR TIE 


229 


were growing larger. The clouds seemed more light 
and fleecy. There was a gray mist of rain down in the 
south, over Ayr ; but all around her the wet landscape 
was shining in its young spring greens and blues, and the 
gusty west wind, blowing a warm and moist fragrance 
about the garden, could not quite drown the' music, of the 
thrushes and blackbirds. The sky cleared more and 
more. Even in the south the rain mist lifted, and the 
sunlight played around the far promontory. Finally the 
wind died away, and over all the land there seemed to 
reign the fresh, clear, brightness and sweetness cf an 
April morning. 

Coquette put on her small hat ( with its dash of sea- 
bird plumage) and a warm gray woollen shawl, and went 
out. Her light foot was not heard leaving the house ; 
and in a few minutes she was out on the moorland road, 
all" around her the shining beauty of the spring day and 
the glistening of the recent rain. At another time she 
would have rejoiced in the clear sunshine and the genial 
warmth of the western breezes ; to-day she seemed 
thoughtful and apprehensive, and dared scarcely look 
over the moor. She wandered on, her head somewhat 
downcast, and when she paused it was merely to pickup 
some tiny flowers from among the wet grass. It was 
only by a sort of instinct that she avoided the red pools 
which the rain had left in the road ; she seemed to walk 
on, in the opposite direction from Airlie, as if she were 
in a dream. 

She became aware that there was some one crossing 
over the moor on her right ; still she did not look up. 
Indeed, before she could collect herself to consider how 
she should speak to Lord Earlshope, supposing he weie 
to meet her, the stranger had overtaken her, and pro- 
nounced her name. 

She turned, a trifle pale, perhaps, but quite self-pos- 
sessed, and regarded him for one brief second. Then 
she stepped forward and offered him her hand. During 
that instant he, too, regarded her, in a somewhat strange 
way, before meeting her advances and then he said, — 

“ Have you really forgiven me i 


230 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


“ That is all over,” she said, in a low but quite dis- 
tinct voice, “all over and forgotten. It does do no good 
to bring it back. You, have you been very well ? ’* 

Me looked at her again, with something of wonder 
in the admiration visible in his eyes. 

“ How very good you are ! I have been wandering 
all over Europe, feeling as though I had the brand ©f 
Cain on my forehead. I come back to hear that you 
have been dangerously ill, without my having any knowl- 
edge of it. I hang about, trying to get a word of ex 
planation said to you personally before calling at the 
Manse, and now you come forward, in your old straight- 
forward way, as if nothing had happened, and you offer 
me your hand just as if I were your friend. ’ 

“ Are you not my friend ? ” 

“ I do not deserve to be anybody’s friend.” 

“That is nonsense,” said Coquette. “Your talk of 
Cain, your going away, your fears, I do not understand 
it at all.” 

“ No,” said he. “ Nor would you ever understand 
how much I have to claim forgiveness . for without a 
series of explanations which I shall make to you some 
day, I have not the courage to do it now. I should 
run the risk of forfeiting the right ever to speak another 
word to you.” 

Coquette drew back, and regarded him steadfastly. 

“ There,” said he, “ didn’t I tell you what would 
happen ? You are becoming afraid of me. You have 
no reason.” 

“ I believe you,” she said ; “ but I do not understand 
why all this secrecy, all this mystery. It is very strange 
to me, all your actions ; and^you should be more frank, 
and believe I will not make bad interpretation, You 
wish to be my friend ? I am well pleased of that, but 
why you make so many secrets ? ” 

“ I cannot tell you now,” he said, hurriedly. “ I am 
too anxious to believe that you have forgiven me for 
what happened on that hideous night. I was mad, I 
was beside myself, I don’t know what possession I 
labored under to make a proposal ” 


A DAUGHTER OF II K TIL 


2 3 1 


“Ah, why bring it all back?” said Coquette. “Is 
it not better to forget it ? Let us be as we were before 
we went away in the yacht. You shall meet me. I 
shall speak to you as usual. We shall forget the old 
misfortunes. You will come to the manse sometimes, 
as you did before. You must believe me, it will be very 
simple and natural if you do try ; and you shall find your- 
self able to be very good friends with all of us, and no 
•more brands of Cain on your forehead.” 

He saw in her soft eyes that she faithfully- meant 
what she said ; and then, with a sort of effort, he said, — 

“ Come, let us walk along, and I will talk to you as you 
go. There is a path along here by which you can cross 
the moor, and get back to the Manse by Hechton 
Mains.” 

How glad she was to walk by his side in this fashion ! 
It was so pleasant to hear his voice, and to know that 
the grave kindliness of his eyes sometimes met hers, that 
she did not stop to ask whether it were merely as friends 
they were walking together. Nor did she notice, so 
glad was she, how constrained was his talk ; how he 
was sometimes, in moments of deep silence, regarding 
her face with a look which had the blackness of despair 
in it. She chatted on, pleased and happy ; breaking 
imperiously away from all mention of what had hap- 
pened in the North whenever that became imminent. 
She did not even perceive where she was going ; she 
submitted to be led, and even lost sight of the familiar 
features of the landscape surrounding her own home. 

“ I wonder if there was ever a woman as unselfish 
as you are,” he said, abruptly and morosely. “I know 
that you are pretending to be glad only to make our 
meeting pleasant and spare* me the pain of self-accusa- 
tion.” 

“ How can you think such morbid things on such 
a beautiful morning ? ” she asked. “ Is it not a pleasure 
to be in the open air ? Is it not a pleasure to meet an 
old friend ? And yet you stop to pull it all to pieces, 
and ask why and what and how. You, who have been 


232 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


abroad, are not thankful for this bit of sunshine, per- 
haps that is the reason.” 

There is something almost angelic, if we know any- 
thing about angels, in the way you have of forgetting 
yourself in order to make people feel at ease.” 

“ And if you are not cheerful this morning, you have 
not forgotten how to pay compliments,” she said, with 
a smile. 

Presently he said, with a shrug,- — 

“ You must consider me a very discontented fellow, 

I fancy. You see, I don’t wish just at present to inter- 
rupt our new friendliness by explaining why I am not 
cheerful, why I owe you more contrition than you can 
understand, why your kindness almost makes me sus- 
picious of your good faith. You don’t know ” 

“ I know enough,” she said, with a pretty gesture of 
impatience. “ I wish not to have any more, whys, and 
whys, and whys. Explanations, they never do good be- 
tween friends. I am satisfied of it if you come to the 
Manse, and become as you were once. That is all ; that 
is sufficient. But just now, when you have the pleasant 
morning before you, it is not good to. torment yourself 
by doubts and suspicions and questions.” 

“ Ah, well,” he said, “ I suppose I must suffer you 
to consider me discontented without cause. It will be 
of little consequence a hundred years hence.” 

Coquette laughed. 

“ Even in your resignation you are gloomy. Why 
you say that about a hundred years ? I do not care 
what happens in a hundred years ; but just now, while 
we are alive, we ought to make life pleasant to each 
other, and be as comfortable^as we can.” 

So they wandered on, Coquette not paying particular 
heed to the direction of their walk. Her companion 
was not very talkative ; but she was grateful for the new 
interest that had been lent to her life by his arrival ar 
Airlie, and was in very good spirits. All her fears of 
the morning had vanished. It seemed a comparatively 
easy thing for her to meet him ; there could apparently 
be no recurrence of the terrible scene which was now 


A DA UGH TER OF HE Til. 


233 


as a sort of dream to her. Suddenly, however, her com- 
panion paused ; and she., looking up, saw that they were 
now at the corner of the Earlshope grounds, where these 
joined the moor. There was a small gate in the wall 
fronting them. 

“ Will you come into the grounds ? ” he said, produc- 
ing a small key; “you need not go up to the house. 
There is a sort of grotto or cavern, which I constructed 
when I was a lad, at this end of the copse. Will you go 
in and see it ? ” 

Coquette hesitated only for a moment, and then she 
said, “Yes.” lie opened the small gate; they both 
passed through ; and Coquette found herself at the ex- 
tremity of a small path leading through a strip of fir- 
wood. 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

LORD EARLSHOPE'S CAVE. 

She now recollected that long ago the Whaup had 
spoken of some mysterious place which Lord Earlshope 
had built within his grounds ; and when her companion, 
begging her to excuse him fora few minutes, passed in- 
to what was apparently a cleft in a solid mass of earth or 
rock, and when she heard the striking of a match, she 
concluded that he was lighting up the small theatrical 
scene for her benefit. Nor was she mistaken, for pres- 
ently he came out and asked her to return with him 
through this narrow aperture. He led the way; she fol- 
lowed. If the cavern into which they entered were 
of artificial construction, considerable pains had been 
taken to make it look natural. At first the cleft was 
open above, and the sides of the passage were covered 
with ferns and weeds growing in considerable profusion. 
By and by she came in front of a large recess, apparently 
dug out of the side of a rock, and involuntarily a cry of 


234 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


wonder escaped her. The sides of this tolerably spacious 
cave were studded here and there by curiously shaped 
and pendent lamps of various colors ; and right at the 
back was a Chinese stove, on the polished surface of 
which the colored lights threw faint reflections. Dovvn 
one side of the cave a stream trickled, dropping over 
bits of rock, and wetting the masses of fern which grew 
in their clefts. The space in front of the stove was per- 
fectfy dry; and there stood two cane easy*chairs, fitted 
with small reading-desks and candles. The whole place 
looked a bit cut out of a pantomine ; and Coquette, sud- 
denly finding herself in this strange place, with its dusky 
corners and its colored lamps, wholly forgot that outside 
there reigned the brightness of a spring day. 

“ What do you think of my boyish notions of the 
marvellous ? ” he said, with a smile. 

“ It is wonderful,” said Coquette, who fancied she 
had been transferred to a fairy palace. 

“There are incongruities in it,” said he, “for I 
changed my hobbies then as rapidly as now. It was 
begun in imitation of a cavern I had read of in a novel ; 
it was continued as a mandarin’s palace, and finally 
finished up in imitation of the Arabian Nights. But you 
can imagine it to be what you like, once you have taken 
off your boots, which must be damp, and put on that 
pair of Russian slippers which you will find in front of 
the stove. I shall leave you to complete your toilette, 
while I go up to the house for some biscuits and wine.” 

With which he left, before Coquette could utter a 
word of protest. She now found herself alone in this/ 
extraordinary place. Had he brought her there inten- 
tionally ? She had looked at the slippers — they were 
lady’s slippers, and new. He had evidently, then, antici- 
pated that he would meet her, walk, with her, and bring 
her thither. She knew not what to do. Yet the slip- 
pers were very pretty — curiously wrought with colored 
beads, and deeply furred all around. They were seduc- 
tively warm, too, from having been lying before the 
stove. So, with a certain defiant air, she sat down, 
pulled off her tiny boots, and placed them before the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


235 


stove ; and presently her small feet were encased in the 
warm and filrred slippers, which had apparently been left 
for her by the genii of the cave. 

Then she sat down in one of the easy-chairs, pulled 
off her gloves, and. put out just so much of the slippers 
that she could admire their rose-colored tips. All this 
.conduct on her part she knew to be dreadfully and des- 
perately wrong; but she was very comfortable, and the 
place was very pretty. As for the slippers, they were 
simply not to be refused. Indeed, the whole thing 
hovered in her mind as half a dream and half a joke ; 
and when, at length, Lord Earlshope appeared with his 
stock o* provisions, the whole adventure looked remark- 
ably like one of those playing-atrhouses games familiar 
to children. As for any apprehension of her indiscreet 
behavior being a subject of after annoyance, she felt 
none whatever. Had not Lord Earlshope and herself 
quite got back to their old friendly terms ; and what harm 
was there ir. her joining in this piece of amusement ? If 
she had any doubts or misgivings, they were swallowed 
lip in the sensation of comfort lent by the Russian 
slippers. 

Coquette ate one or two of the small biscuits, and 
drank half a glass of the yellow-white wine which Lord 
Earlshope poured out for her. Then she said, — 

“ I do not know how you can go away from this 
place. I should live here always. Why did you go 
away ? ” 

“ I am going away again,” lie said. She looked up 
with some surprise, perhaps with a shadow of disappoint- 
ment, too, on her face. 

“ How can I stay here ? ” he said, suddenly. “ I 
should be meeting you constantly. I have no right to 
meet you. I am satisfied, now that I know you are well, 
and that you have forgiven me ; and I do not wish to re- 
peat a bygone error. You, who are always so pleased with 
everything, around you, I see you have forgotten that 
witchery that seemed to have fallen over us both last 
summer. You are again yourself, calm, satisfied with- you- 
self, on excellent terms with everybody and everything. 


226 


A DAUGHTER OE HE TIT. 


But I have not been cured by my few months’ absence. 

Now that I see you again, Bah ! what is the use 

of annoying you by such talk ? Tell me, how is your 
cousin in Glasgow ?” 

Coquette remained quite silent and thoughtful, *how- 
ever, with her eyes fixed on the stove before her. After 
a little while she said, — 

“ I have not forgotten ; I will never forget. I have 
been so pleased to see you this morning that perhaps I 
have appeared light, fickle, what you call it ? in your eyes, 
and not mindful of your trouble. It is not so. I do re- 
member ail that happened ; it is only I think better not 
to bring it back. Why you should go away ? If you re- 
main, we shall learn to meet as friends, as we are now, are 
we not ? ” 

“ Do you think that is possible ? ” he asked gravely 
looking at her. 

Coquette dropped her eyes ; and said in a low voice, — 

“ It may be difficult just a little while ; yet it is possi- 
ble. And it seems hard that if we do enjoy the meeting 
with each other* we must not meet, that I drive you away 
from your own home.” 

“ It is odd, is it not ?” he said, in rather an absent 
way. “ You have made me an exile, or rather, my own 
folly has done that No, Coquette ; I am afraid there is 
no compromise possible, for me, at least, until after a few 
years, and then I may come back to talk to you in quite 
an offhand fashion, and treat you as if you were my own 
sister. For I am a good deal older than you, you 
know *’ 

At this moment there was a sound of footsteps out- 
side ; and Coquette hurriedly sprang to her feet. Lord 
Karlshope immediately went out to the entrance of the 
place ; and Coquette heard some one approach from the 
outside. She hastily abandoned her small furred slippers, 
and drew on her damp hoots ; then she stood, with a 
beating heart, listening. 

4 * I am sorry to have alarmed you,” said Lord Earis- 
hope, returning. “It was only a servant with seme ‘letters 
which have arrived.” 


A DAO'CVIER OF I£E TIL 


2 37 


But the sound of those footsteps had suddenly awak- 
ened Coquette to a sense of the imprudence, and even 
danger, of her present position, and she declined to re-' 
sume her comfortable seat before the fire. 

“ I must go,’’ she said. 

“ Let me show you the way,” said he ; and so he led 
her out the winding path, and through the shrubbery to 
the small gate that opened out on the moor. She had 
reached the limit of Earlshope; in front of her stretched 
the undulating plain leading up to Airlie ; she was free to 
go when she pleased. 

“ I must not see you home,” he said, “ or the good 
people who may have noticed us an hour ago would have 
a story to tell.” 

“ I shall find my way without trouble, ”said Coquette, 
and she held out her hand. 

“ Is it to be good-bye, then ? ” he said, looking sadly 
at her. 

“ Not unless you please,’’ said Coquette, simply, al- 
though she bent her eyes on the ground. “ I should 
like you to remain here, and be friends with us as in' 
long ago ; it is not much to ask ; it would be a pleasure 
to me, and I should be sorry and angry with myself if I 
thought you had again gone away because of me. It is 
surely no reason you should go ; for I should think of 
you far away, and think that I ought to go away, not 
you, for I am a stranger come to Airlie, and sometimes 

I think I have come only to do harm to all my friends ” 

My darling ! ” he said, with a strange and sad look 
on his face, as he caught her to him and looked down 
into the clear, frightened eyes, “ you shall not accuse 
yourself like this. If there is blame in my staying, I 
will bear it, I will stay, whatever happens, and we shall 
meet, Coquette, shall we not, even as now, in this still- 
ness, with no one to interrupt our talk ? Why do you 
look frightened, Coquette ? Are you afraid of me? See, 
you are free to go ! ” 

And his- arms released their hold, and she stood, 
with downcast eyes, alone and trembling. But she did 
not move. And so, once again he drew her towards 


. 2*3 


•• A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


him, and, ere she knew, his arms were around her, and 
she was close against his bosom, and kisses were being 
showered on her forehead and on her lips. It was all 
so sudden, so wild and strange, that she did not stir, 
nor was she 'but half conscious of the fetters of tron 
which these few moments were fastening down on her 
life. It was very terrible, this crisis ; but she vaguely 
felt that there was the sweetness of despair and utter 
abandonment possessing her ; that the die had been 
cast for good or evil, and the old days of doubt and an- 
xiety were over, 

“ Let me go — let me go!’* she pleaded piteously. 
“ Oh, what have we done ? ” 

“ We have sealed our fate,” said he, with a wild look 
in his eyes, which she did not see. “I have fought 
against this for many a day, how bitterly and anxiously 
no one knows, Coquette. But now, Coquette but now ; 
won’t you look up and let me see that love is written in 
your eyes ? Won T t you look up, and give me one kiss 
before we part? only onej Coquette? ” 

But her downcast face was pale and deathlike, and 
for a moment or two she seemed to tremble. Finally 
she said, — 

tf I cannot speak to you now To-morrow or next 
day, perhaps we shall meet. Adieu! you must leave 
me to go alone.’’ 

And so she went away over the moor ; and he stood 
looking after her for some time, with eyes that had now 
lost all their wild joy and triumph, and were wistful 
and sad. 

“ She does not know what has happened to her to- 
day,” he said to himself, “ and I, I have foreseen it, and 
striven to guard against it, to no purpose.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


239 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE NEMESIS OF LOVE. 

“ At last, at last, at last ! ” the words rung in her 
ears as she hurried across the moor, seeing nothing, 
heeding nothing, her face turned away from the clear 
blue-white of the spring sky. She was only anxious to 
get within the shelter of her own home, to resolve those 
wild doubts and fears which were pressing upon her. 
In many and many a story of her youth, in many a 
ballad and song she had sung long ago in the garden 
overlooking the Loire, she had heard tell of happy lovers 
and their joy ; and, with the light fancies of a girl, she 
had looked forward to the time when she, too, might 
awake to find her life crowned by those sweet experi- 
ences that fall to the lot of young men and maidens. 
Was this love that had come to her at last, not in. the 
guise of an angel, with a halo over his head and mildness 
in his faee, but in the guise of a sorcerer, who had the 
power to turn the very sunlight into blackness ? 

Yet, when she had reached the solitude of her own 
chamber, she asked herself the reason of this sudden 
fear. What made her heart beat and her cheek grow 
pale as she looked back to that wild evening in Loch 
Scavaig ? Was not that all over and gohe, forgotten 
and buried in the past ? Indeed, she began to reason 
with herself over the injustice of recalling it. Had not 
Lord Earlshope sufficiently endeavored to atone for — 
what ? 

That was the mystery which was pressing upon her 
with a terrible pertinacity. She had been oppressed 
with an unnamable dread during that memorable even- 
ing ; but what had Lord Earlshope done, beyond talk- 
ing wildly and almost fiercely for a few minutes? She 
had almost forgotten the substance of what he had then 


24 ° 


A DAUGHTER OF RE TIT. 


said. And now that he had expressed his penitence for 
that, since he had even punished himself with six months’ 
exile on account of it, why should the memory of it in- 
terfere between them as a gloomy phantom, voiceless, 
but yet holding up a warning finger ? 

“ I do not understand it,” she murmured to herself in 
French. “There is something he will not tell me ; and 
yet why should he be afraid ? Does he fear that I shall 
be unjust or merciless, to him who has never a hard 
word or a suspicion for any one ? Why should he not 
tell me? it cannot be anything wrong of himself, or I 
should see it in his eyes. And whatever it is, it separates 
us, and I have given my life to a man who seems to 
stand on the other side of a river from me, and I can 
only hold out my hands to him, and wish that the river 
were the river of death, so that I could cross over, and 
fall at his feet and kiss them.” 

She took out a little book of devotions which had 
been given her by some companions on leaving France, 
and sat down at the small window-table, and placed it 
before her. A few moments thereafter, Lady Drum, 
coming into the room, found the girl’s head resting on 
the table, covered by her hands. 

“ Asleep in the middle o’ the day ! ” said the visitor, 
who had unceremoniously come upstairs. 

Coquette hastily rose, and would have hidden her 
face by turning aside and going- into her bedroom, but 
that Lady Drum stopped her, and took her by both 
hands. 

“ What ! No rosier than that ? And fast asleep in 
the middle o’ such a day ! Dear me, lassie ! ” she 
added, looking more narrowly at her, what are your 
eyes so big and wild and wet for ? ” 

Lady Drum walked to the table, and took up the 
small book. She turned over its pages, and the con- 
tempt visible on her face grew fast and fierce. 

“ Saints, crosses, mealy-faced women \vi’ circles 
around their heads, men in blue gowns wi’ a lamb by 
them, is this the trash ye spend your days ower, when 
ye should be in the open air ? ” 


A DAUGHTER OF I1ETH. 


241 


Lady Drum clasped the book again, put it in the 
drawer of the table, and shut the drawer with somewhat 
unnecessary vehemence. 

“ Phew ! I have no patience wi' the folk that would 
make every young lassie a nun. Come here, my young 
princess wi’ the pale face ; are ye no. a stanch, earnest, 
indomitable Presbyterian ? ’’ 

“ I am what you please,” said Coquette, timidly. 

“ Are you or are you not, a Presbyterian ? ” 

" Perhaps I am,” said Coquette. “ I do not know 
what it is, this Presby — I do not know what you say. 
But I do keep my books that belonged to me in France. 
That is a good book ; it can do no harm to any one : ” 

“ My certes ! here is a pretty convert ! It can do 
no harm to ony one ? and I find ye in the middle o’ 
the day greetin’ ower its palaverins, and with a face that 
would suit a saint better than a brisk young creature o’ 
your age. Ayrshire is no the place for saints, the air is 
ower healthy. Come here, and I will show ye the book 
that ye must read/’ 

She led Coquette to the window, and began to ex- 
patiate on the enjoyments of being out walking on such 
a day, with the spring winds stirring the young corn, 
rnd ruffling the distant blue of the sea. Alas! all that 
Coquette saw was the beginning of the line of trees 
that led down to Earlshope. 

“ Listen now,” said Lady Drum, “ I have come 
here on an errand. Ye have never seen Glasgow. I 
am going up to-morrow morning ; can you come wi’ 
me, stay two or three weeks, and cheer your cousin’s 
exile a bit ? ” 

Coquette’s "conscience smote her hard ; and it was 
with a quick feeling of pain and remorse that she thought 
of the Whaup. She had almost forgotten him. Far 
away in the great city of which she knew so little he 
was working hard, buoyed up by some foolish and fond 
notion that he was pleasing her. All at once her heart 
turned towards him with a great affection and yearning. 
She would make amends for the wrong which he had 
unwittingly suffered. She would go at once to Glas- 




242 A DAUGHTER OF IIE TIL 

gow ; and would shower upon him every token of 
solicitude and kindness that she could devise. 

“ Oh, yes, Lady Drum ! ” she said, with evident 
eagerness in her face. “ I will go with you as soon as 
you please. Have you seen my cousin ? Is he well ? 
Is he tired of his hard work ? Does he speak of us 
sometimes ? He does not think we have forgotten 
him ? ” 

“ Hoity toity ! Twenty questions in a breath ! Let 
me tell you this, my young lady, that your cousin, 
though he says nothing, is doing wonders ; and that 
Dr. Menzies, to whom the Minister confided him, is 
fair delighted wi’ him, and has him at denner or supper 
twice of thiice a week ; and your cousin is just petted 
extraordinary by the young leddies o’ the house, and 
bonnier lassies there are none in Glasgow.’’ 

Coquette clasped her hands. 

“ Perhaps he will marry one of them,” she cried, with 
a wonderful gladness in her eyes. 

Lady Drum looked at her. 

“Marry one o’ them? Would ye like to see him 
marry one o’ them ? Has that daft picture-book turned 
your head and made ye determined to gang into a nun- 
nery ? ” 

“It is. # not necessary he marries me,” said "Coquette, 
in a tone of protest. “ A young man must choose his 
own wife — it is not pleasant for him to be made to marry 
by his friends.” 

“ Ah, well ! ” said Lady Drum, with a sigh. “ Young 
folks, are young folks, and they will pretend that the 
marmalade they would like to steal is nothing but down- 
right medicine to them. Ye had better begin to think 
about packing up for to-morrow morning.” 

“ To-morrow morning ! ” said Coquette, with a sudden 
tremor of apprehension. 

“ Yes.” 

“ Oh, I cannot go to-morrow — I cannot go to-morrow : 
will not the next day do, Lady Drum ? May I not have 
one day more ? ” 

Astonished beyond measure by the sudden alteration 


A DA UGII TER OF HE TIL 


=43 


in the girl’s manner, from delight at the prospect of go- 
ing, to an almost agonizing entreaty to be left alone for 
another day, Lady Drum did not reply for a minute or 
two, but regarded her companion, who bent her eyes on 
the ground. 

“ What have you to do to-morrow ? ” said the elderly 
lady, at last. 

“ It is nothing — it is not much,” stammered Coquette. 
“ Only I do wish to remain at Airlie to-morrow. It is 
only one day longer, Lady Drum.” 

“ Why, you plead as if I were to tak’ ye out for exe- 
cution the day after. If it will serve ye, I will wait for 
another day, and on Friday morning, at ten minutes to 
ten, ye must be at the station, wi’ a’ your trunks and 
things in good order.” 

“ But I have not asked my uncle yet,” said Coquette. 

“ I have, though,” said Lady Drum, “ and I’m think- 
ing he’ll no miss ye except at the breakfast. Since he 
began to get up that Concordance o’ the Psalms, he 
seems to have withdrawn himself from the world lound 
about him, as it were, dead to his friends.” 

“ It is very kind of you to ask me to go with you,” 
said Coquette, suddenly remembering that she had not 
thanked Lady Drum for her offer. 

“No, no.” said her elderly friend; “what would a 
big house be without a young leddy in it to bring visitors 
about ? And this time, I must tell ye, a friend o’ Sir 
'Peter’s has given us the loan o’ his house until he comes 
back from Rome ; and it is a big house overlooking the 
West-End Park ; and I’m thinking we’ll find it more 
comfortable than a hotel. And we will have some com- 
pany; and it will no be amiss if ye bring wi’ ye such 
French ornaments or dresses as might be rather out o’ 
place in the Manse o’ Airlie. And I’m sure ye will be 
quite surprised to see your cousin — how he looks now 
just like . a fine, stalwart gentleman, instead o’ a long- 
legged laddie; and it is just possible Lord Eadshope 
may pay us a visit some evening.” 

Did Lady Drum throw out this hint as a vague feeler ? 


244 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


She had never penetrated the mystery which had sur- ' 
rounded the relations between Coquette and Lord Earls- 
hope during their voyage in the Highlands. She had, \ 
indeed, destroyed the scrap of writing handed to her by j 
Coquette when the girl was delirious, unwilling to bother 
herself with a secret which did not concern her. Still 
Lady Drum was just a trifle curious. There was some- 
thing very peculiar and interesting in the odd notions 
which the young French girl seemed to have acquired 
about love and marriage. Lady Drum had never met : 
with any one who held but the ordinary and accepted 
theories on that attractive subject. Yet here was a young 
lady who calmly contemplated the possibility of loving 
some one whom circumstances might prevent her marry- t 
ing ; and seemed in nowise disinclined to marry any one 
whom her friends recommended, and wished to make * 
her husband. Were these French notions of the duty 
of daughters to their parents ? Or had they been picked 
up m idle speculation, and not yet driven away, as Lady 
Drum felt certain they would be driven away, by a real * 
love affair. At all events, the mention of Lord Earls- 
hope’s name at once arrested Coquette’s attention. 

“ Does Lord Earlshope ever go to Glasgow ? ” she 
asked, suddenly. 

“ What for no ? ” 

“And is he likely to meet my cousin at your house ? ” 

“ Assuredly. Why not ? Why not ? ” 

“ I did ask merely to know,” said Coquette, with I 
thoughtful eyes. 

Then Lady Drum bade her come downstairs and get 
her a biscuit and a glass of wine. The Minister was 
brought out of his study, and they had a little talk over 
Coquette’s projected trip. /y,t, length Lady Drum sent 
to see if her coachman had refreshed his horses ;■ and, 
finally, with a pleasant “an revaur, jn a fee / an revaur ' 
an revaur a boilnair ! ” the old lady walked in her grand 
and stately fashion across the small garden, got into her 
carriage, and was driven away' from Airlic Manse. 

There remained to Coquette but one day on which 


A DA L G II TED O E HE TH. 2 45 

she had the chance of seeing Lord Earlshope, and how 
was she to bring about a meeting which she had feared, 
yet could not wholly forego ? 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE LAST DAY AT AIRLIE. 

All during that evening, and in thinking of the next 
morning, she nursed a sweet and strange poison at her 
heart. Love seemed no longerjto be so terrible as on 
that weird evening in the Highlands ; and she grew ac- 
customed to the danger, and glad that, come what might, 
this flower of life had at length fallen upon her and she 
knew its fragrance. Had she not been told, in many of 
those old stories, that love for love’s sake was enough ? 
She did not care to count its cost. She scarcely paid 
any heed as to how it might end. Sufficient to know 
that now, at this moment, her heart was beating wildly 
against its prison-bars, and would fain have taken wings 
and flown over the moor towards Earlshope, if only to 
die on finding a haven. 

Nor was there much disquiet in her look the next 
morning when she rose and found that another bright 
and clear day had come to mark her farewell to Airlie. 
She was hurried and excited, perhaps, in preparing to go 
out, but she was joyful, too ; and the early morning sun- 
shine, streaming in through the small window, found her 
eyes full of gladness and hope. 

Yet how was she to communicate with Lord Earls- 
hope, and let him know that she wished to say good-bye 
to him ? Clearly neither her uncle nor Lady Drum 
knew that he was at Earlshope. She dared not send 
him a message ; and equally impossible was it for her to 
go up alone to the house. Her hope was that he would 
be. on the look-out for her ; and that another stolen in 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Til. 


246 

terview would mark the last day she had for the present 
to spend at Airlie. 

She was not mistaken in that vague surmise. When 
she went out for her accustomed forenoon stroll, she had 
wandered but a little way when she found him approach- 
ing her. His look was anxious ; but hers was full of 
affection and trust. 

“You are no longer alarmed to see me ? ” he asked, 
with an expression of glad surprise. 

“ No.” she said. “ Why should I ? Perhaps I ought 
not to meet you in this way ; but it will not be for long. 
And you — you seemed to have dropped from the clouds.” 

“ I was on my way to the Manse.” 

“To the Manse ! ” she repeated, in some dismay. 

“ Yes.„ Do you know any reason why I should not 
call upon your uncle ? * I dared not go near the place 
until I had assured myself I should not be annoying you. 
And now I hope to be able to call and see you there, in- 
stead of inveigling you into these surreptitious meetings, 
even although they have the charm of secrecy, and of 
Russian slippers.’’ 

He had caught some faint reflex of cheerfulness 
from the gladness of her face ; but there was still about 
him a look of constraint and anxiety. 

“ It is too late to think of that,” she said ; “ I go to 
Glasgow to-morrow.” 

“ Have they found out ? Are they sending you 
away ? ” he asked, hurriedly. 

“ No ; there is nothing to find out. But Lady Drum, 
she is good enough to ask me to go with her; and there 
I will see my cousin, whom I have promised to visit 
often, yet have never been able. And I am sorry for 
him, alone in that great place, and the people here 
nearly forgetting him. Does he not deserve some rep- 
aration, some kindness from me ? ” 

She looked up into his face ; and he knew that she 
meant more than appeared in her words. 

“ I wonder,” said Lord Earlshope, after a little while, 
“ if he does hope to win your love ; if he is working 
there with the far-off intention, of coming back here and 


A DAUGHTER OF 1/E TIE 


2 47 

asking you to be his wife. If that is so, we have acted 
very cruelly by hiiu.” 

44 Ah, not cruelly ! ” she said, as* if begging him to 
reassure her. “ If we have forgotten him, can I not 
make it up to him ? You will see, when I go to Glas- 
gow, I will be very kind to him, he will not think that 
he has been ill-used.” 

“ But he will think that you arc still looking favorably 
on his vague hopes, he. will be all the more assured that, 
some day or other, you will become his wife.” 

“ And if that will make him happy,” she said, slowly 
and with wistful eyes, “ there is nothing I will not do 
to make him happy.” 

Lord Earlshopc regarded her with a strange look. 

“ You would become his wife ? ” 

u If that would make him happy, yes. lie deserves 
so much from me, I will do that, if he demands it.” 

“You will many him, and make him fancy that you 
love him ? ” 

“No,” she said, simply. 44 1 should tell him every, 
thing. I should tell him that he deserves to marry n 
woman who has never loved any one but himself ; and 
yet that I, if his marrying me will alone make him happy, 
I will do what I can, and be his wife.” 

“ So the world goes,” said her companion, with a 
strange bitterness in his tone ; “ and it is the good and 
the true and the noble that suffer. You arc far too un- 
selfish to lead a happy life, Coquette. You will sacrifice 
yourself, sooner or later, for the sake of some one you 
love ; and the reward you will get will be reprobation 
and the outcry of the crowd. And I — I have so far 
paved the way for all this that if I ’ could free you at 
this morpent by laying down my own life, you would 
find it no vain boast when I say now that I would cto 
it willingly.” 

“ But you have not made me suffer,” she said, gently 
“ Look now and see whether I am sad or miserable. I 
have been so happy all this morning, merely to tlnnk I 
should see you, that is enough ; and now you arc here 1 
am content. I wish no more in the world.” 


2 48 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


“ But, Coquette, don’t you see ? it cannot end here,” 
he said, almost desperately. “ You do not know the 
chains in which I am bound. I — I dare not tell you, 
and yet, before you go to Glasgow 

“No,” she said, in the same gentle voice. “I do 
not wish to know. It is enough for me to be beside 
you as now, whatever is in store for us. And if it 
should all be bad and sorrowful, I shall remember that 
once I was satisfied ; that once I walked with you here 
one morning, and we had no thought of ill, and we were 
for a little while happy.” 

“ But I cannot stop there,” said he. “ I must look 
at the future, Oh, my poor girl, I think it would have 
been better for us both had we never been born ! ” 

She drew back from him amazed and alarmed. All 
the grave kindliness of his face had gone, and he was 
regarding her with a look so full of pity and of love 
that her heart grew still with a great fear. Why was it 
that, at the very moment when they were most peaceful 
and happy, when she merely wished to enjoy the satis- 
faction of being near him, leaving the future to take 
care of itself, this unnamable something came in between 
them, and bade her begone from a man who had some- 
thing to say which he dared not tell her? Yet that 
hesitation of hers lasted but a moment. After all, she 
thought, what was her happiness in comparison with 
that of the man she loved ? She saw the pain and the 
despair written on his face, and she drew nearer to him 
again, and took his hand in hers.” 

“ I shall never wish that I had not been born,” she 
said, “for I have known you a little while, and I have 
walked with you here. The rest is nothing. What can 
harm us, if we are true to ourselves, and do what we 
think is right ? ” 

“That is possible to you, who. are as clear-souled as 
aii angel,” he said. 

Now what could ail two lovers who were walking 
thus in the happy springtime, alone together, with youth 
in their ejes, and all the world before them ? Was it 
not enough for them to be ? All things around them 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


249' 


were peaceful in the clear sunlight; the fields lay still 
and warm in their coating of young green; the birds 
were busy in the leaves of the hedges, and there was 
many a jubilant note in the woods. Far away in the 
south there lay a faint blue smoke over the houses of 
Ayr, but no murmur of toil and struggle reached them 
up on those moorland heights. The moor itself and 
the fields and the valleys were as still as the sea, which 
shone in the sunlight a pale -blue until it was lost in the 
white of the horizon. They only seemed out of conso- 
nance with the peace of this mild and clear spring day, 
in which the world lay and basked. 

They strolled on together, Coquette sometimes pick- 
ing up a flower, until they had got down to that corner 
of Earlshope grounds where the small gate was. They 
had gone thither untentionally. 

“ Shall we go in ? ” said her companion. 

“No,” said Coquette. “It is too beautiful outside 
to-day. Why cannot we go out yonder on the sea, and 
sail along the coast of Arran, and on and up Lockiyne, 
where the still blue lake is ? I do remember it was so 
pleasant there, but afterwards ” 

A cloud fell over her face, and Lord Earlshope has- 
tened to change the subject. He spoke of her* going to 
Glasgow ; of the chances of his seeing her there ; of the 
time she would be likely to stay. By this time they 
had turned again, and were walking in the direction of 
the Manse. Somehow or other, Coquette seemed un- 
willing to speak of Glasgow, or to admit that she ex- 
pected to see him at Lady Drum's house. When, in- 
deed, they had come within sight of the house. Coquette 
stopped, and said she would bid him good-bye there. 

“But why are you so sad, Coquette?” he said. 
“This is no farewell ; most likely I shall be in Glasgow 
before you.” 

“ I am sorry for that,” she said, with her eyes fixed 
on the ground. 

“ Why now ? What subtle notion of self-sacrifice, 
for that it must be if you have resolved upon anything, 
have you adopted now ? ” 


250 


A 1 'A UGH TER OF HE Til 


“ You do not seem to know what reparation I do 
owe to my cousin. It is for him I go to Glasgow. 
You must not come if it will annoy him, the poor boy i 
who has not much to comfort him, except, except ’* 

“Except the thought of marrying you, Coquette,” 
said Lord Earlshope ; “ and you, you seem to think no- 
thing of yourself, if only you can secure the happi- 
ness of everybody else. Ah, well, if you wish me to 
see you while you are in Glasgow, I will remain away. 
Let your cousin have that brief time of enjoyment. 
But for us two, Coquette, for us two there is no hope of 
this separation being final.” 

“ Hope ? ” she said ; “ why do N you hope it ? Is it 
not pleasant for us to see each other, if only we do no 
harm nor pain to our friends ? Why do you speak in 
that way, as if some great trouble was about to befal us. 
Sometimes I do fear what you say, and I think of it at 
night, and tremble, for I have no one that I can speak 
to ; but in the morning these fears go away, for I look 
out of the window, and I am only anxious to see you.” 

“ My darling ! ” he said, with a look of great com- 
passion and tenderness in his eyes, “you deserve the 
happiest. life that ever a true-hearted woman enjoyed; 
and when I think what I have done to make you miser- 
able ” 

“ Ah, not miserable ! ” she said. “ Do I look miser- 
able ? You must not think that ; nor that I am at all 
miserable in Glasgow. No, good-bye, good-bye ” 

“ For how long ? ” said he, taking both her hands in 

his. 

With that she looked down, and said in a very low 
voice, — 

“ If you are weary here, you may come to see me in 
Glasgow, once, twice, but not often ” 

The rest of her words were lost, for she found her- 
self once more folded in his arms, as he bade her good- 
bye, and kissed her. 

“ Good-bye, Coquette, good-bye ! ” he said, tenderly ; 
and when she had gone some way across the moor, and 
turned and saw him standing there, it seemed to her 


A DAUGHTER OF I/E TIE 


2 Cl 


that she still heard him say ‘'Good-bye. 5 ’ lie waved a 
handkerchief to her; it was as if he were on board a 
vessel standing out to sea, and that soon a great and 
desolate ocean would roll between them. When she 
got home, and went up into her own room, and looked 
out of the window, there was no figure visible on the 
wide expanse of the moor. There was nothing there 
but the sunshine and the quiet. 

This was the first day that Coquette had known the 
joy of being loved ; and lo ! it was already empty. 
Fair and beautiful the morning had been, a day to re- 
main a white stone' in her memory, but it was already 
numbered with the days that were. And the love that 
filled her heart, it was no gay and happy thing, to make 
her laugh and sing out of pure delight, but an unrest 
and a care she was now to carry always with her, won- 
dering whether its sweetness were as great as its pain. 


. 1 1 t>\, 'V 

CHAPTER XXXVII. 



1 COQUETTE IN TOWN. 

As Coquette and Lady Drum drew near to Glasgow 
the impatience of the girl increased. Her thoughts 
flew on more swiftly than the train, and they were all 
directed towards the Whaup, whom she was now about 
to see. 

“ Will he be at- the station ? Does he know we are 
coming ? Or shall we see him as we go along the 
streets ? ” she asked. 

“Dear me!” said Lady Drum, “ye seem to think 
that Glasgow is no bigger than Saltcoats. Meet him in 
the streets ? We should scarce see him in the streets 
if he were dressed in scawrlet.” 

It was growing towards dusk when the two ladies 
"’ved. . Lady Drum’s carriage was waiting at the sta- 


252 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


tion ; and presently Coquette found herself in the midst 
of the roar and turmoil of the great city. The lamps 
on the bridges were burning yellow in the gray coldness 
of the twilight ; and she caught a glimpse of the masses 
of shipping down in the dusky bed of the river. Then 
up through the busy streets, where the windows were 
growing bright with gas, and dense crowds of people 
were hurrying to and fro, and the carts and wagons and 
carriages raised a din that was strange and bewildering 
to ears grown accustomed to the stillness of Airlie. 

“ Alas ! ” said Coquette, “ I cannot see him in this 
crowd, it is impossible.” 

Lady Drum laughed, and said nothing. And so they 
drove on, the high, old-fashioned chariot, which ought 
to have been kept for state purposes down at Castle 
Cawmil, swinging gently on its big springs, up to the 
northwestern district of the city. When Coquette was 
finally set down in front of a range of tall houses, the 
rooms of which were shining ruddily through crimson 
curtains, she got up the steps, and turned to take a look 
at her new place of abode. Lo ! in front of her there 
was no more city ; but a great gulf of pale blue mist, 
with here and there an orange lamp burning in the dis- 
tance. There were no more streets nor crowds nor great 
wagons ; and she even became aware that there were 
trees in front of her and down there in the mysterious 
hollow. 

“Where am I ? ” she said. “It is not a town, are 
we in the country again ? And where is my cousin ? ” 

At this moment the hall-door was thrown open by 
a servant ; and out of the blaze of light came a dapper 
and fat little gentleman, who, with a light laugh, darted 
down the steps and gave his arm to Coquette. 

“ Here we are again ! ” cried Sir Peter. “ Charmed 
to see you, Miss Cassilis, quite charmed ; hope you will 
have many a pleasant evening, many and many and 
many a pleasant evening.” 

Then he was about to hand her over in his airy fash- 
ion to the young person who had been told off as her 
maid ; but Miss Coquette was rebellious. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE 77 /. 


2 53 

“No,” she said. “I do wish to go and see my 
cousin before anything, he does not know I am in th.s 
town, it will be goodnatured of you, Sir Peter to come 
with me.” 

" Oh, certainly ! certainly ! Roberts, stop the car- 
riage ! My lady, keep dinner to half-past eight. Come 
along, my dear. H’m ! Ha! Tra-la-la-la ! ” 

Lady Drum stood at the open door, amazed. Indeed, 
she was so astounded by this mad project on the part 
of her husband, within an hour of dinner-time, that she 
had not a word to say, and in blank astonishment she 
beheld the carriage drive off. Once more ' Coquette 
found herself getting into a labyrinth of streets, and the 
farther they drove the more noisy and dingy they seemed 
to get. She began to wonder if it were in this place 
that the Whaup had been living for so long a time,, and 
how the thought of Airlie and the wild moorland and 
the sea had not broken his heart. 

It happens to most lads who go to college that they 
attach themselves to some friend and companion con- 
siderably older than themselves, who becomes their 
counsellor, teacher, and ally. Nothing of the kind was 
possible to the Whaup. His individuality was too strong 
to admit of his becoming the doppelgangcroi anybody. No 
sooner had he thrown himself into the midst of college 
life than his exuberant spirits, along with a touch of his 
old love of devilment, attracted round him a considerable 
circle of associates, of whom he was the heart and soul. 
It is to be feared that the Whaup and his friends did 
not form the most studious coterie to be found in the 
old High Street building. Plenty of study there was ; 
and the Whaup worked as hard as any of them. But 
the wild evenings which these young gentlemen spent 
in their respective lodgings, the stories told of their 
dare-devil pranks, and the very free-and-easy manners 
of more than one of them, gained for this band a dan- 
gerous reputation. They were held to be rather wild 
by the more discreet and methodical of their fellow-col- 
legians. The Whaup himself was known to stick at 
nothing. His splendid physique gave him many advan- 


254 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


tages ; and after having let daylight come in upon their 
rambling and hot-headed disquisitions on poetry or 
“ metapheesics,” on their too copious beer-drinking* and 
smoking of lengthy clays, many were chagrined to meet 
the Whaup in the forenoon as fresh and pink as a daisy, 
having just completed his morning classes, and setting 
out for a long swinging walk around by the Botanic- 
Gardens and the Kelvin. 

“ What a powerful* fellow your cousin is,” said Sir 
Peter, as they drove along George Street. “ Did you 
hear of his adventure at the theatre ? No ? Good story ; 
very. good* story ; ho ! ho ! excellent story. He takes three 
young ladies into the theatre, cabman insults him, he 
hands the young ladies into the theatre, comes back, hauls 
the cabman down from his box and gives him a thorough 
thrashing in about a minute. Up conies another cab- 
man, squares up, is sent flying into the arms of a police- 
man ; the policeman admires pluck, and says it serves 
them both right. Your cousin goes into the theatre, sits 
down, nobody knows, Ho, ho ! Ha, ha ! ha ! ” 

“But, pray who were the young ladies?” says Co- 
quette, with a touch of proud asperity. 

“ Young ladies, young ladies, young ladies, who can 
remember the names of young ladies ? ” said, or rather 
hummed, Sir Peter, keeping time by tapping on the car- 
riage window. “ Why, I remember! Those charming 
girls that sing— what's the song ? why, the Doctor’s 
daughters, you know, Kate and Mary and Bess, all of 
them Menzies, Menzies, Menzies ! ” 

“ I think my cousin ought to attend to his studies, 
rather than go about with young ladies,” said Coquette. 

“ So, ho ! ” cried Sir Peter. “ Must a young man have 
no amusement ? Suppose he caps his studies by marry- 
ing one of the Doctor’s daughters ! ” 

“ There are plenty to choose from,” said Coquette, 
with an air of disdain. 

Indeed, the mention of these three young ladies ren- 
dered Coquette silent for the rest of the drive ; and Sir 
Peter was left to talk and sing to himself. Yet it was 
but a little time before, that Coquette had clapped her 


2 55 


A DAUGHTER OR HETH. 

hands with joy on hearing that the Whaup had made 
those acquaintances, and that she had eagerly asked Lady 
Drum if it were probable he might marry one of them. 
Why should she suddenly feel jealous now, and refuse to 
speak to this poor Sir Peter, who was risking his dinner 
to do her a service ? 

Her face lightened considerably when the carriage 
was pulled up, and she got out to look with some curiosity 
on the gaunt and gray house in George Street which bore 
a number she had often written on her letters, Many a 
timashe had thought of this house, and mentally drawn 
a picture of it. But the picture she had drawn was of a 
small building with a porch and green casements, and a 
big square in front, with trees in it ; in short, she had 
thought of a quiet thoroughfare in an old-fashioned French 
town. She was more grieved than disappointed with the 
ugliness of this house. 

Sir Peter led her up the entry, and up the stone stairs 
to the first landing. It was her first introduction to the 
Scotch system of building houses. But her attention was 
suddenly withdrawn from this matter by a considerable 
noise within, and over the noise there broke the music of 
a song, which was plentifully accompanied by rappings 
on a table or on the floor. 

“ Ah , c est Ini /” she suddenly cried. “ I do know 
it is he.” 

The Whaup, to tell the truth, had not a very beautiful 
voice, but it was strong enough, and both Sir Peter and 
Coquette could hear him carelessly shouting the words 
of an old English ballad, — 

“ Come, lasses and lads, away from your dads, 

And away to the maypole hie, 

For every fair has a sweetheart there, 

And the fiddlers standing by 1 

For Willie shall dance with Jane, 

And Johnny has got his Joan, 

To trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it, trip it up and down — ” 

while there was a measured beating of hands and feet. Sir 
Peter had to knock twice before any one answered ; and 
when the door was opened lo it was the Whaup himself 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


256 

who apppeared, there being no one else in the house to 
perform the office. 

“ What ! is it you, Coquette ! ” he cried, seizing both 
her hands. 

“ Oh, you bad boy ! ” she cried, “ how you do smell 
of tobacco ! ” 

And, indeed, there came from the apartment he had 
just left, the door of which was also wide open — rolling 
volumes of smoke, which nearly took Sir Peter’s breath 
away. 

“ But what am I to do with you ? ” he said. “ Mine 
is the only room in the house that isn’t in confusion just 
now ” 

u We will go in and see your friends, if you do not 
object, and if the gentlemen will permit us,” said Co- 
quette, at once. Perhaps she was desirous of knowing 
what company he kept. 

You should have seen how swiftly those young men 
put away their pipes, and how anxious they were to get 
Coquette a chair — and how they strove to look very mild 
and good. You would have fancied they had been hold- 
ing a prayer-meeting ; but their manner changed per- 
ceptibly when Coquette hoped she had not interrupted 
their smoking, and graciously asked that the gentleman 
who had been singing should continue, at which there 
was much laughter, for the Whaup looked confused. It 
was in the midst of this reawakening of voices that Sir 
Peter, who was beginning to feel uncomfortable about his 
dinner, explained the object of his visit, and asked the 
Whaup if he could come along later in the evening. Of 
course, his friends counselled him to go at once ; but he 
was not so lost to all notions of hospitality. 

“ No,” said he ; “I will come and see you to-morrow 
night.” 

Coquette looked hurt. 

“ Well,” said her cousin to her, with a dash of his 
old impertinence, “ you can stay here if you like, and let 
Sir Peter go home with an excuse for you.” 

The young men looked as if they would have liked 
£0 second that invitation ? but dared not. Indeed, they 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


„ 257 

regarded Coquette, whose foreign accent they had no- 
ticed, in rather an awestricken way. Perhaps she was 
a French princess who had come on a visit to Sir Peter ; 
and she looked like a princess, and had the calm gracious- 
ness and self-possession of a princess. That was no 
blushing country girl who sat there, the small lady with 
the delicate and pale features, and the large, quiet, dark 
eyes, who had a wonderful air of ease and grace. The 
rough students felt their eyes fall when she looked at 
them. What would they not have given to have spoken 
with her for a whole evening, and looked at the wonders 
of her costume and the splendor of her dark hair ? 

“ What do you say, Coquette ? ” said the Whaup ; 
and they all pricked up their ears to hear her called by 
this strange name. 

Coquette laughed. Doubtless she considered the 
propos^ as a piece of her cousin’s raillery ; but any one 
at all conversant with the secret likings of the young 
lady, as the Whaup was, must have known that she was 
perhaps not so averse to spending an evening with a lot 
of young students as she ought to have been. 

“ Perhaps I should like it,” she said frankly, “ if you 
did all sing to me, and tell stories, and make me one of 
your companions. But I am very hungry, I have had 
no dinner.” 

" Bravely and sensibly spoken ! ” cried Sir Peter, who 
had become alarmed by this outrageous suggestion put 
out by the Whaup. “ Come along, my dear Miss Cas- 
silis ; your cousin will come to-night, or to-morrow 
night.” t 

“ Good-bye, Tom,” said Coquette. “ I am pleased 
you enjoy yourself in Glasgow. It is not all study and 
books. And now I know why you did write to me such 
very short letters.” 

“ Look here, Coquette,” said he, as they were leav- 
ing. “ What are you going to do to-morrow forenoon ? 

I suppose you’ll be driving about, and seeing grand peo- 
ple, and you won’t have a word for me.” 

Ah, you wicked boy, to say that ! ” she said reproach- 
fully. “ You will come for me to-morrow when you 


A daughter op hpth. 


258 

choose — nine, ten, eleven— -and we will go for a walk 
just where you please, and I will speak to nobody but 
you, and you shall show me all the things worth seeing 
in Glasgow and round about.” 

“ Why Coquette, it is all like a dream come true ! ” 
he cried, “ And to think that you are in Glasgow at 
last ! ” 

With that Sir Peter offered the young lady his arm, 
and hurried her downstairs. He was anxious about his 
dinner. 

The Whaup returned to his companions, and instantly 
perceived that they were treating him with unusual re- 
spect. They would talk, also, about the young lady ; 
and whether she would remain in Glasgow; and where 
the Whaup had seen her first ; and whether she would 
likely be up at his rooms any other evening Master 
Tom was not very communicative, but at last one ven- 
tured to say, — 

14 Tell us, now, Cassilis, is she likely to be married 
soon ? ” 

“ She is,” said the Whaup. 

“ To whom ? ” 

“ To me,” said the Whaup. 


CHAPTER XXXVIII. 

ALL ABOUT KELVIN-SIDE. 

Talk of Glasgow being a dull, gray city ! When 
the Whaup got up next morning at half-past six, and 
looked out, it seemed to him that the empty pavements 
were made of gold, that the fronts of the houses were 
shining with a new light, and the air full of a delicious 
tingling. For did not the great city hold in it the beat 
ing heart of Coquette ; and were not all the thorough- 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


2 59 


fares aware of the consecration that had fallen on them 
by her arrival ? Away he sped to his classes ; and his 
boots, as they rang in the street, clattered “ Coquette ! ” 
and “ Coquette ! ” and “ Coquette ! ” If the Professor 
had known that Coquette was in Glasgow, would he 
have looked so dull, and been so miserably slow ? 
What was the use of this gabble about ancient lan- 
guages, when Coquette had brought her pretty French 
idioms with her, and was even now getting up to look 
out on the greenness of Hillhead and down on the 
sluggish waters of Kelvin. Alas ! why were the half- 
hours so full of minutes ; and might not the sunshine 
be altogether faded out of the sky before he could get 
westward to welcome Coquette ? 

He dashed home from college to his lodgings, and 
then arrayed himself in his tidiest garments, and fresh- 
ened himself up, singing the while some snatches of 
“ Sally in our Alley.” The tall and smart young man 
who now issued into George Street, and made his way 
westward as fast as his long legs could carry him, bore but 
little resemblance to the devil-may-care lad who had 
lounged about Airlie and tormented his father’s neigh- 
bors. Yet he was singing one of his boyish songs as 
he strode along the thoroughfare, and ever and anon he 
looked up at the sky to make sure that it was going to 
be kindly to Coquette. Why, the light mist of the 
morning was now clearing away, and a blaze of sun- 
shine was striking here and there along the northern 
side of Sauchiehall Street. ’Tis a pleasant street, un- 
der particular circumstances. Shops are its landmarks ; 
but they grow poetic in the eyes of youth. It seemed 
to the Whaup that the boots in the windows looked un- 
usually elegant ; that never before had he seen such 
taste in the arrangement of Normandy pippins ; that 
even the odor of a bakery had something in it that 
touched sweet memories. For, indeed, the shops and 
the windows and the people, and Sauchiehall Street 
itself, -were to him on that morning but phantasms ; 
and all around him the air and the sky and the sunshine 
were full of Coquette, and nothing but Coquette. He 


26 o 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


fell in love with Sauchiehall Street on that morning ; 
and he has never quite forgotten his old affection. 

He walked up to the front of the great house overlook- 
ing the Park which Sir Peter had borrowed, and was glad 
that the door was ope'ned by a girl instead of by a man- 
servant, a creature whom he half feared and half disliked. 
The young person had scarcely shown him into the 
spacious drawing-room when he heard a quick flutter 
of a dress, and Coquette herself came rushing in, and 
overwhelmed him with her questions and her exclama- 
tions and her looks. For she could not understand 
what had altered him so much until she perceived that 
his moustache, which had been rather feeble on their 
last meeting, had now assumed quite formidable pro- 
portions ; and it was only a significant threat on his 
part that caused her to cease her grave and ironical 
compliments. 

And where should they go on this bright summer 
morning ? 

“ Lady Drum, she has gone into the town to buy 
ornaments for the grand dinner of Friday,” said Co- 
quette, “ to which you are invited, Mr. Whaup, by a 
gilt card which I did address for you this morning. 
And I would not go with her, for I said, my cousin 
comes for me, and he would be angry if I were not here, 
and he is very disagreeable when he is angry. Enfin , 
let us go and you will amuse me by all that is to be 
seen.’” 

Now when Coquette had got herself ready, and they 
went out, the Whaup took a ver^ strange road to the 
city by going down to Kelvin Bridge, The farther 
they went, over Hillhead and farther westward, the less 
appearance there was of streets and shops, until the 
Whaup had to confess that he had led her, with malice 
prepe7ise directly away from the town. And so they 
went into the country. 

He took her into all the haunts and nooks that he 
had explored by himself, down to the Pear-tree Well, 
back again, and alongthe Kelvin, and then up by the cross- 
road which leads to Maryhill. Here they paused in theii 


A DAUGHTER OF IIE TIL 


261 


wanderings to look over the great extent of country 
which lay before them ; and the Whaup told her that far 
away on the left,- if she had a wonderful telescope, she 
might see the lonely uplands about Airlie, and catch a 
glimpse of the long sweep of the sea. 

. “ I used to come up here,” he said, “ all by myself, 

and wonder what you were doing away down there. And 
when the sun came out, I thought, ‘ Ah, Coquette is en- 
joying herself now.’ ” 

“ All that is very pretty,” said Coquette, “ and I 
should be sorry for you, perhaps. But I do find you 
have still some amusement. What is it you sing ? — • 
‘ Come, lasses and lads, away from your dads ? ’ What 
is ‘ dads ! 5 ” 

“ Never mind, Coquette. It is only a song to keep 
up one’s heart, you know, not to be talked about on a 
morning like this, between us two. I want to say some- 
thing very nice to you, and friendly, and even sentimen- 
tal, but I don’t know how. What shall I say ? ” 

“ It is not for me to tell you,” remarked Coquette, 
with some air of disdain. 

And yet as they stood there, and looked away over 
the far country towards Airlie and the sea, they some- 
how forgot to talk. Indeed, as Coquette, leaning on the 
low stone wall, gazed away westward, a shadow seemed 
to cross her face. Was she thinking of all that had hap- 
pened there, and of her present position — mayhap work- 
ing grievous wrong by this thoughtless kindness to her 
cousin ? Was she right in trying to atone for previous 
neglect by an excess of goodness which might be cruel 
to him in after-life ? Her companion saw that a sudden 
silence and pensiveness had fallen over her, and he drew 
her gently away, and began their homeward walk. 

On their way back they again went down to the Kelvin, 
and he proposed that they should rest for a little while 
in the bit of meadow opposite the Pear-tree Well. They 
.sat down amid the long grass, and when any one crossed 
the small wooden bridge, which was but seldom, Co- 
quette hid her face under her sunshade, and was urp 
seen, 


262 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

“ Are you tired ? ” said the Whaup. 

“ Tired ? No. I do walk about all day sometimes at 
Airlie” 

u Then why have you grown so silent ? ” 

“I have been thinking.” 

“ Of what ? ” 

“ Oh many things — I do not know.” 

“ Coquette,” he said suddenly, “ do you know that 
the well over there used to be a trysting-place for lovers, 
and that they used to meet there and join their hands 
over the well, and swear that they would marry each 
other some day or other I suppose did some marry and 
some didn’t ; but wasn’t it very pleasant in the meantime 
to look forward to that ? Coquette, if you would only give 
me your hand now ! I will wait any time, I have waited 
already, Coquette ; but if you will only say now that I 
may look forward to some day, far away, that I can come 
and remind you of your promise, think what it would be 
to have that to carry about with one. You will be going 
back to Airlie, Coquette, I mayn’t see you for ever so 
long.” 

He paused, for she seemed strangely disturbed. She 
looked up at him with eyes which were wild and 
alarmed. 

“ Ah, do not say any more,” she said ; “ I will do 
anything for you, but not that, not that.” 

And then she said, a moment afterwards, in a voice 
which was very low and full of sadness,— 

“ Or see, I will promise to marry you, if you like, 
after many, many years, only not now, mot within' a few 
years, afterwards I will do what you like.” 

“ But have I offended you ? Why do you cry, Co- 
quette ? Look here, I’d cJft my fingers off before I would 
ask anything of you that pained you. What is the mat- 
ter, Coquette ? Does it grieve you to think of what I 
ask ? ” 

“ No — no ! ” she said hurriedly, with tears stealing 
down her face. “ It is right' of you to ask it, and I — I 
must say yes. My uncle does expect it, does he not ? 
^nd you yourself, Tom, you have been very good to m§, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


263 

and if only this will make you happy, I will be your 
wife/’ 

“ You will ?” said he, with his handsome face burn- 
ing with joy. 

“ But — but,” said Coquette, with the dark- eyes still 
wet, and the head bent down so that he could scarce see 
her face, “ not until after many years. And all that time 
Tom, I shall pray that you may get abetter wife than I, 
and a wife who could be to you all that you deserve, and 
in this long time you may meet some one, and your 
heart will say, She is better fojr me than Coquette ” 

“ Better than you, Coquette ! ” he cried. “ Is there 
anybody in all the world better than you ? ” 

“Ah, you do not think, you do not remember. You 
do not know anything of me yet, I am a stranger to you, 
and I have been brought up differently from you. And 
did not Leeziebess say I had come to do mischief among 
you, and that my French bringing up was danger- 
ous ? ” 

' “ But you know, Coquette, that your goodness even 
turned the heart of that horrible old idiot towards you ; 
and you must not say another word against yourself, for 
I will not believe it. And if you only knew how proud 
and happy you have made me,” he added, taking her hand 
affectionately and gratefully. 

“ I am glad of that,” said Coquette, in a low voice. 
“ You deserve to be very happy. But it is a great many 
years off, and in that time I will tell you more of my- 
self than I have told you yet. I cannot just now, my 
poor boy, for your eyes are so full of gladness ; but some 
day you will believe it fortunate for you if you can mar- 
ry some one else, and I will rejoice at that too.” 

“ Why,” said he, with som^good-natured surprise in 
his voice, “you talk as if there was some one you wanted 
to marry.” 

“ No,” said Coquette with a sigh, “there is no one.” 

“And now, then,” said the Whaup gayly, as he as- 
sisted her to rise, “ I call upon all the leaves of the trees, 
and all the drops in the river, and all the. light in the air, 
to bear witness that I have won Coquette for my wife ; 


264 


A DAUGHTER OE HETH. 


and I ask the sky always to have sunshine for her, and 
I ask the winds to take care of her and be very gentle to 
her, for isn’t she my Coquette 

“ Ah, you foolish boy ! ” she said, with sad and tear- 
ful eyes, “ you have given me a dangerous name. But 
no matter. If it pleases you to-day to think I shall be 
your wife, I am glad. ’ 

Of course, in lover’s fashion, he laughed at her fears, 
and strove to lend her a leaven of his own high-hearted 
confidence. And in this wise they returned to Glasgow, 
as lovers have done before them, as lovers will do after 
• them again and again, so long as youth hungers for bright 
eyes and laughs to scorn all the perils the future may 
hold. And if the Whaup thought well of Glasgow on 
that morning when he set ^ut, you may guess what he 
thought of the city as he now returned to it, and of the 
strange transfiguration undergone by the distant clouds 
of smoke, and the tall chimneys, and the long and mono- 
tonous streets. Romance had bathed the old gray town 
in the hues of the sunset ; and for him henceforth Glas- 
gow was no longer a somewhat commonplace and mat- 
ter-of-fact mass of houses, but a realm of mystery and 
dreams which love had lit up with the colored lime-light 
of wonder and hope. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

LADY DRUM’S DINNER-PARTY. 

9 

So Coquette had engaged herself to marry her cousin. 
She knew not why, but there were strange forebodings 
crowding her mind as she contemplated that as yet dis- 
tant prospect. It seemed to her that life would be a 
pleasant and enjoyable thing if all the people arpund her 
were satisfied, like herself, to leave it as they found it, 
and continue those amicable relations which were quiet- 


A Da jGHTER OF HE TIE 


265 

er, safer, more comfortable than the wild and strange 
perplexities which appeared to follow in the train of love. 
Love had become a fearful thing to her. She looked 
forward to meeting Lord Earlshope with something 
very like alarm; and yet his absence was a source of 
vague unrest and anxiety. -She longed to see him ; and 
yet dreaded a repetition of those bizarre and terrible 
scenes which had marked the opening days of their in- 
timacy. And the more she looked at her own position, 
the longer she dwelt on the possibilities that lay before 
her in the future, the less could she unravel the toils that 
seemed gathering around her and binding her with iron 
chains. 

Was this, then, the happy phase of life into which 
she had seen, with something of envy, her old compan- 
ions and playmates enter ? Was this the delight of be- 
ing in love ? Were these the joyous experiences which 
were sung, in many a ballad, and described in many a 
merry theatre-piece, and dwelt lovingly upon in many a 
story ? 

“ I am eighteen,” she said to herself, in these solitary 
musings. “ It is the time for young people to be in love, 
and yet I hate it and fear it, and I wish that I did never 
come to this country. Alas ! it is too late to go away 
now.’’ 

And again she asked herself if she had brought 
those perils now looming distinctly in the future, upon 
herself by her own fault. Wherein had she erred ? 
Surely not through selfishness. She loved Lord Earls- 
hope, and was content to be loved by him, without 
even dreaming that he was thereby bound to her in any 
shape whatever. Indeed she seemed to think that by 
way of reparation to her cousin it was her duty to marry 
him, and she had consented only because she thought 
she would make him happy. In neither direction was 
there the least regard for herself ; but only a desire to 
please her friends all around; and yet it seemed that those 
very efforts of hers were doomed to plunge her deeper 
and deeper into the sea of troubles in which she found - 
herself sinking. Was there no hand to save her ? She 


266 


A DAUGHTER of he th. 


knew not how it had all come about ; but she did know 
that in the odd moments in which a consciousness of 
her situation flashed upon her a vague terror took 
possession of her, and she looked forward with dismay 
to the coming years. 

These moments, fortunately, occurred at considera- 
ble intervals. The temperament of the girl was natu- 
rally light and cheerful. She was glad to enjoy the 
quiet pleasure of everyday life, and forget those gloomy 
anxieties which lay in the future. And this visit to 
Glasgow was full of all manner of new experiences, de- 
lights, excitements, which drove her forebodings out of 
her head, and led the Whaup to believe that she was 
proud to have become his affianced wife. Why had she 
cried, he asked himself, when he urged his suit in that 
bit of meadow on the banks of the Kelvin ? It did not 
matter. The Whaup was not himself inclined to mor- 
bid speculation. Doubtless, girls were strange creatures. 
They cried when they were most pleased. They turned 
pale or fainted, or achieved some other extraordinary 
feat, on the smallest emotional provocation. It was 
enough for him to hear Coquette’s merry laugh to con- 
vince him that she was not very sorry for what she had 
done ; and everybody, from Lady Drum downwards, 
bore testimony to the fact that the visit to Glasgow had 
wonderfully improved the girl’s health and spirits. You 
had only to look at the new and faint color in her pale 
cheeks, and the glad brightness of her eyes. 

Then there was the grand dinner coming off, which 
was 'to introduce Coquette to Lady Drum’s Glasgow 
friends. The Whaup, of course, was invited ; and, as. 
there never had been occasion for his wearing evening 
dress down in Airlie, his slender store of money was 
deeply dipped into by his preparations. But when his 
name was announced, and he walked into the drawing- 
room, where Lady Drum was receiving her guests, the 
appearance of the tall and handsome young man attracted 
a good many eyes ; and Coquette, who had ran for- 
ward to meet him, was quite overcome by wonder and de- 
light over his transformation from a raw country lad into 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


267 

an elegant young gentleman, and could not refrain from 
saying as much to him in a whisper. The Whaup, who 
• had looked around for her on his entrance into the 
room, laughed, and blushed a little, and then drew her 
away into a corner, and said, — 

“ It is all the white tie, Coquette, isn’t it ? Don’t 
you think I’ve managed it well ? But I am awfully 
afraid that a sneeze would send everything flying, and 
fill the air with bits of cambric. And it was very good 
. of you, Coquette, to send me those studs. Don’t they 
look pretty ? — and I’ll kiss you for sending me them 
whenever I get the chance.” 

With which Coquette drew herself up and said, — 

“ You do talk of kissing me as if it were every day. 
Yet you have not kissed me, nor are likely to do that, 
until you are a great deal better-behaved, and less vain 
of yourself. You do talk of not being able to sneeze, 
merely that I look at the negligent way you have made 
your necktie and your collar, to open your throat, you 
foolish boy, and give yourself a cold.” 

At this moment Sir Peter bustled up to get hold of 
Coquette, and introduce her to some civic dignitaries ; 
and the Whaup, with some chagrin, saw her disappear 
in a crowd of bailies. He himself was speedily recalled 
to his duty, for the remainder of the guests were arriv- 
ing rapidly, and among them were some whom he knew. 
He soon found himself being teased by the daughters of 
his friend, Dr. Menzies, three tall, light-haired, merry- 
hearted girls, who rather made a pet of him. And all 
at once one of them said to him, — 

“ Why, is that your cousin there, the girl in white, 
with the tea-rose in her breast? It is? How hand- 
some she is ; and how well she knows the proper sort 
of flower for her dark hair ! Did you say she was an 
Italian ? ” 

“ No, a Mongolian,” said the Whaup, emphatically ; 
for he did not like to have Coquette spoken of by any- 
body in this cool and critical fashion. 

“ Does she sing ? ” ' , 

“ I should think so,” he said, curtly. 


268 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


At this very moment Coquette came towards him, 
and then, seeing that he was talking to three young 
ladies, suddenly turned and looked for Sir Peter, whom 
she had just left. The Whaup was at her side in a mo- 
ment. 

“ What is it, Coquette ? ” he said. 

“ Nothing,” she said coldly. 

“ You know you were coming to speak to me.” 

“ But I did find you engaged,” she said, with a slight 
touch of hauteur in her tone. “ Who are these young 
ladies ? Are they your friends whose father is the 
doctor ? Why do you leave them ? ” 

“ Coquette, if you are unreasonable I will go away 
and not return the whole evening. What did you come 
to tell me ? ” 

“ I did come to say,” replied Coquette, speaking with 
a studied and calm carelessness, “ that Lady Drum has 
asked Bailie Maclaren (I do think that is the name) to 
take me in to dinner, and I do not like it, for I would 
rather have sat by you ; but it is of no consequence since 
you are occupied with your friends.” 

“ Ho, ho ! ” said the Whaup, confidently. “ Lady 
Drum asked me to take in that old woman with the 
feathers, Mrs. Colquhoun ; but don’t you imagine I am 
such a fool, Coquette, oh, no ! ” 

“ What will you do ? ” said Coquette, with her face 
brightening up. 

The Whaup said nothing for a second or two, but 
just then, a motion towards pairing having taken place, 
elderly gentlemen bowing graciously and desirous of 
“ having the honor,” the Whaup darted up to Bailie 
Maclaren, a venerable person in spectacles, who was 
looking out for his appointed partner, and said in a hur- 
ried whisper, — 

“ I beg your pardon, sir, but Lady Drum bids me tell 
you she would be much obliged if you would kindly take 
in Mrs.'Colquhoun, the old lady near the piano, do you 
see her ? ” 

The Whaup did not wait for any reply from the be- 
wildered old gentleman, but instantly returned to Co- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


269 


quette, caught her hand, placed it on his arm, and 
hurried her into the dining-room in defiance of all order 
and the laws of precedence. Not for some time did 
Lady Drum see what had occurred. It was not until the 
soup had been cleared away that she caught a glimpse 
of Coquette and the Whaup sitting comfortably together 
at a portion of the table where neither ought to have 
been, and the face of the young lady, who wore tea-rose- 
buds twisted in the loose masses of her dark hair, was 
particularly bright and happy, for her companion was 
telling her wonderful stories of his college life, lies, 
doubtless, for the most part, or nearly approaching there- 
unto, 

“It was rather shabby of you, Coquette,” he said, “ to 
run away like that when I wanted to introduce you to 
Dr. Menzies’ girls.” 

“ I was introduced to too many people ; I cannot re- 
member all such names. Besides, I do not like girls with 
straw-colored hair.” 

“ Oh, for shame, Coquette ! You know it isn’t straw- 
color, but golden, and very pretty. Well, I would have 
introduced you to those two young ladies who sit near 
Sir Peter, and who have hair as dark and as handsome 
as your own.” 

“ Who are they ? ” said Coquette, submissively ; for 
she was bound to be consistent.. 

“ They live in Regent’s Park Terrace,” said the 
Whaup, which did not afford his companion much in- 
formation, “ and they have the most lovely contralto 
voices. You should hear the younger one sing the * Ash 
Grove.’ ” 

• “ I do think you know too many young ladies,” said 
Coquette, with a pout, which was so obviously assumed 
that he laughed ; and then she began to tell him in con- 
fidence, and in a very low voice, that she was very an- 
xious for the appearance of the first entrees , merely that 
she should have a little sparkling wine. 

“Champagne!” said the Whaup suddenly to the 
servant behind him ; at which Coquette looked much 
alarmed and embarrassed. The man went and brought 


270 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIE 


a bottle, and the Whaup was rude enough to take it from 
him and fill Coquette’s glass, and then smuggle it behind 
a big epergne, where it was wholly concealed by flowers. 

“You wicked boy !*’ said Coquette, fearing that all 
eyes had been drawn towards them ; but the Whaup 
calmly gazed down the table and saw that the guests 
were occupied with their own affairs. 

And so the dinner went on, and these two young 
people were very happy ; for it was the first time that 
the Whaup had appeared in society along with Coquette, 
and he felt a right of property in her, and was proud of 
her. She had given him to understand that their mar- 
riage was a thing so distant and vague that it was 
scarcely to be thought of as yet ; but in’ the meantime 
he regarded her as virtually his wife, and no longer con- 
sidered himself a solitary unit lost in this crowd of mar- 
ried people. He was very attentive to Coquette. He 
was particular as to the dainties which she ate ; he as- 
sumed authority over her in the matter of wine. Why, 
it was as if they were children playing at beeing husband 
and wife, in a fantastic grotto of their own creation ; 
while the serious interests of the world were allowed to 
pass outside unheeded, and they cared not to think of 
any future, so busy were they in wreathing flowers. 

“ Coquette,” said he, “ if you are good, I will sing 
you a song when we go into the drawing-room.” 

“ I do know,” said Coquette, with the least trace of 
contempt. “ It is always ‘ Come lasses and lads, Come 
lasses and lads’ ; that is your song always. Now, if 
you did sing some proper song, I would play an accom- 
paniment for you. But perhaps some of your young 
lady friends down there — can they play the accompani- 
ment for you ? ” 

“ Oh, yes,” said the Whaup, lightly. “ But, of course, 
none of them can play or sing like you, you know. Now 
if you only saw yourself at this moment, Coquette, how 
your white dress, and the glare from the table, and the 
strong lights make your hair and your eyes look so dark 
as to be almost wild, and those pretty yellow rosebuds — ” 

“ Have I not told you,” said Coquette, with some 


A DAUGHTER OR HE TH. 


271 


asperity, “ that it is very, very bad manners to mention 
one’s appearance or dress ? I did tell you often, you 
must not do it ; and if people do hear you call me Co- 
quette, what will they say of me ? ” 

“ Go on,” said the Whaup, mockingly ; “ let us have 
all the lecture at once.” 

“ Alas ! ” said Coquette, more sadly than she had as 
yet spoken, “ there is another thing I would say, and 
yet of what use ? I would wish you to give up thinking 
me so good and so perfect. Why do you think I can 
play or sing or talk to you better than any one else ? 
It is not true, it is a great misfortune that you think it true. 
And if it was anybody but you, I would say it was com- 
pliments only ; it was flattery ; but I do see in your 
eyes what you think, although you may not say it. Do 
you know that you deceive yourself about me, and that 
it is a pain to me ? , If I could give you my eyes for a 
moment, I would take you around the table, and show 
you who is much prettier than I am, who does sing 
better, who has more knowledge, more sense, more 
nobleness. Alas! you can see nobody but me, and it 
is a misfortune.” 

“ What do you mean by that, Coquette ? ” he said, 
with vague alarm. “ Why do you want me to look at 
people with different eyes ? ” 

“ Because,” she said, in a low voice, but very dis- 
tinctly, “ you do risk all your happiness on a future so 
uncertain. When I look forward to a few years, I am 
afraid, not for myself, but for you. If I could give you 
my eyes, I would lead you to some one of your friends 
and bid you admire her, and teach you what a charming 
character she has, and ask you to pledge her to go with 
you all through the time that is to come. As for me, I 
am not sure of myself. Why did they call me Coquette ? 
When I do think of all that you risk in giving your happ- 
iness to me to keep for a great many years — I — I— 
despair ! ” 

But the Whaup was not to be cast down by th 
idle forebodings. 

“Why, Coquette,” said he, “you are become as 


272 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


morbid as Lord Earlshope, and you talk nonsense be- 
sides, which he never does. You want me to believe 
that anybody else, in this room or any other room, is to 
be compared with you. That is not giving me new 
eyes, it is blinding me with a pair of spectacles. And I 
won’t have your eyes, Coquette, pretty as they are, but 
yourself, eyes included. Why, what a small idiot you 
must be to imagine that the world holds more than one 
Coquette.” 

His companion smiled ; perhaps rather sadly. 

“ It is a great change from your first belief of me, 
when you did think me dangerous and wicked. But 
perhaps they do still think that of me in Airlie. What 
would Leesiebess’s husband answer to those pretty 
things you say of me ; and are you so sure that all the 
people they are wrong, and you are right? ” 

Sure that Coquette was not a wicked and dangerous 
person ? the Whaup had not a word to say. 


CHAPTER XL. 

THE ROSEBUD 

When the ladies had gone from the room, and the 
men had settled down to drink steadily, and talk the 
after-dinner sentiment which they probably called their 
opinions, the Whaup sat by nimsejf, silent and gloomy. 
A full glass of claret remained on the table before him 
untasted. He stared at it as if it were some distant 
object, and the hum of the voices around him sounded 
’ike the murmur of the sea, as he had listened to it at 
tht up on Airlie moor. 

What did Coquette mean? Why did she put away 
the future, as if it were something to be dreaded, 
-ie happy time which ought to have been welcomed by a 
voung girl ? As the Whaup puzzled over these things, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


273 


he asked himself what hindered his going to her now, in 
the royal fashion of Lochinvar, and marrying her out-of- 
hand before she had time to say no ? 

Alas ! Lochinvar belonged to the upper classes. He 
could support the bride whom he stole away in that 
romantic manner ; and his merry black eye, in bewitching 
the girl, and making her ready to ride with him over the 
Borders, was not troubled by any consideration as to how 
the two should be able to live. The Whaup looked up 
the table. There were rich men there. There were 
men there who could confidently place fabulous figures 
on checks ; and yet they did not seem to know what a 
magic power they possessed. They only talked feeble 
platitudes about foreign affairs ; and paid further atten- 
tion to that god which, enshrined in the capacious temple 
underneath their waistbelt, they had worshipped for many 
years. Had they ever been young ? the Whaup asked 
himself. Had they known some fair creature who resem- 
bled, in some inferior fashion, Coquette ? Was there at 
that remote period anybody in the world, in the likeness 
of Coquette, on whom their wealth could shower little 
delicate attentions ? Had they been able to marry when 
they chose ? Or were they poor in their youth, when alone 
money is of value to any one, only to become rich in their 
old age, and think with a sigh of the Coquette of long 
ago, and console themselves with much feeding and the 
imposing prominence of a portly stomach ? 

Dr. Mepzies, it is true, had vaguely promised that, 
when his studies were completed, the Whaup should 
become his assistant, or even his junior partner. But how 
far away seemed that dim prospect ! And why should 
Coquette, a princess on whom all the world ought to have 
been proud to wait, be bound down by such ignominious 
conditions and chances ? The Whaup plunged his hands 
deep into his empty pockets, and stared all the more 
moodily at the glass. 

Then suddenly there was a sound of a piano, a bright, 
sharp prelude which he seemed to know. Presently, too, 
he heard as through muffled curtains the distant voice of 
Coquette ; and what was this she was singing? Why, that 


274 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


brisk old ballad of his own. that she had heard him sing in 
his lodgings. Where had she got it ? The Whaup started 
to his feet, all the gloom gone from his* face. He stole 
out of the room ; in the hubbub of vinous political fervor 
he was scarcely noticed, and made his way to the draw- 
ing-room door. This was what he heard, — 

“ Come lasses and lads, get leave of your dads, 

And away to the maypole hie,- 
For every fair has a sweetheart there, 

And the fiddlers standing by ! 

For Willy shall dance with Jane, 

And Johnny has got his Joan, 

To trip it, trip it, trip it, ” etc. 

Coquette, then, was in no melancholy mood. Why, 
what an ass he had been, to grow dismal when there still 
remained to him the proud possession of that promise 
of hers ! That was his own song she was singing brightly 
and merrily, and with strange oddities of pronunciation. 
She herself belonged to him in a manner, and who was 
there that would not envy him ? When the song was 
finished, the Whaup went into the room, and walked up 
to the piano and sat down by Coquette, and told her that 
he knew nobody among the men, and had been forced 
to come in there. 

“And where did you get that song, Coquette?” he 
asked, 

“ Monsieur ! ” observed Coquette, “ you do talk as if 
you had the right to be here, which you have not. Do 
you not see that your friends, the Doctor’s young ladies, 
did laugh when you came in and walked over to me ? ” 

“ Where should I go, Coquette ? ” 

“ I will tell you,” she answered, in a low voice, as 
she pretended to turn over the music. “When at the 
dinner I did see the youngest of the three young ladies 
look much at you. I have spoken to her since we came 
here. She is charming, and oh ! very good, and speaks 
kindly of you, and with a little blush, which is very 
pretty on your Scotch young ladies. And when I asked 
her if she knows this song, she did laugh and blush a 
little again ; you have been singing it to her ■” 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


275 


“ Oh, Coquette ! ” he said, “ what a sly mouse you are, 
for all your innocent eyes, to be watching everybody like 
that.” 

“ Bien ! you go to her, and sit down there, and make 
yourself very agreeable. You do not know how much 
she is a friend of yours.” 

The Whaup began to lose his temper. 

“ I won’t be goaded into speaking to anybody,” said 
he, “ and the first thing you have to do, Miss Coquette, 
to-morrow morning, is to come to a distinct understand- 
ing about all the nonsense you have been talking at dinner. 
What is it all about, Coquette ? Are you proud ? Then 
I will coax you and flatter you. Are you frightened ? 
Then I will laugh at you, Are you unreasonable ? Then 
-then, by Jingo, I’ll run away with you ! ” 

Coquette laughed lightly, and the Whaup became 
aware that several pairs of eyes had been drawn towards 
them: 

“ This place is getting to hot for me,” he said. “ Must 
I really go back ? ” 

“ No,” she said, “you will stop and sing, something 
bright, joyful, happy, and you will forget the melancholy 
things we have been talking about. Have I been unkind 
to you? You will see I will make it up, and you shall 
not sit gloomy and sad again at dinner. Besides, it does 
not improve your good looks: you should be more of 
the wild boy that I saw when I did first come to Arlie.” 

“ I wish we were both back at Arlie, in those old 
times ! ” said the Whaup, suddenly. 

Coquette looked at him with some surprise. She had 
caught quite a new tone of sadness in his voice, and his 
eyes had grown wistful and clouded. 

So he, too, was striving to pierce that unknown 
future, and seemed bewildered by its vagueness and its 
gloom. The seriousness of life seemed to have told on 
him strangely since he left the quiet moorland village. 
What had wrought the change within the brief space of 
time that had elapsed since her arrival from France? 
Was she the cause of it all ? — she, who was willing to 
sacrifice her own life without a murmur for the happi- 


2 7 6 A DAUGHTER OF HETII. 

ness of those whom she loved ! Already the first months 
of her stay at Arlie, despite the petty persecutions and 
little trials she had to endure, had become an idyllic 
period towards which she looked back with eyes filled 
with infinite longing. 

All that evening she was the prominent figure in 
Lady Drum’s drawing-room. When the men came in 
from their port-wine and politics they found that Co- 
quette had established herself as a sort of princess, and 
they only swelled the number of those who petted her 
and waited upon her. Towards two only she betrayed 
an open preference, and these were the Whaup and the 
youngest of Dr. Menzies’ daughters. She so managed 
that the three of them were generally close together, 
engaged in all manner of private talk. The fair-haired 
young girl had approached with a certain diffidence and 
awe this queenly and dark little woman, whom every- 
body seemed to be talking about ; but Coquette had only 
to smile a little, and begin to talk a little in her foreign 
way, in order to win over the soft-hearted young Scotch 
girl. These three appeared, indeed, to form a group in 
the nebulous crowd of people who chatted or drank tea 
or listened to the music ; and before the evening was 
over Coquette had impressed Miss Menzies, by that 
species of esoteric telegraphy known to women, with a 
series of notions which certainly neither had remotely 
mentioned. 

“ Coquette,” said the Whaup, when all the people had 
gone but himself, and as he was bidding her good-bye, 
“ why did you try to make Mary Menzies believe that 
she and I were much greater companions, and all that 
sort of thing, than you and I ? You always talked as if 
you were the third person talking to us two.” 

“ It is too late for questions,” said Coquette, with a 
mingled air of sauciness and gentleness. “You must 
go away now, and do not forget you go with me to the 
theatre to-morrow evening, and if you do send me some 
flowers I will put them in m) hair.” 

“ I wish you would give me one just now,” he said, 
rather shyly. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Th. 


277 


She took the pale-tinted tea-rose out of her bosom 
and kfcsed it lightly (for Sir Peter was just then coming 
down the hall), and gave it to him. The rose was a 
great consolation to the Whaup on his homeward way. 
And were not the shining stars overhead shining so 
calmly and clearly and happily that they seemed to re- 
buke his anxious forebodings ? 

“ She is as pure as a star,” he said to himself, “ and 
as beautiful, and as far away. The years she talks of 
seem to stretch on and on, and I cannot see the end of 
them. The stars up there are far nearer to me than 
Coquette is.” 

Yet he held the rose in his hand, and she had 
kissed it. 


CHAPTER XLI. 

THE WHAUP BECOMES ANXIOUS. 

Coquette’s stay in Glasgow did not promise well 
tor the Whaup’s studies. On the very morning after 
she had given him a rose to console him on his home- 
ward walk he was again at Lady Drum’s house. He 
looked very blank, however, on entering the morning- 
room, to find that venerable lady the &ole occupant, and 
he saw by the shrewd and good-natured smile on her 
face that she perceived his disappointment. 

“Yes, she is out,” said Lady Drum. “Is that the 
question ye would ask ? ” 

“ Well, it is, to tell you the truth,” said the Whaup. 

“ Could ye expect her to remain in the house on a 
morning like this ? If there is a glint o’ sunshine to be 
seen anywhere, she is off and out like a butterfly before 
we have our breakfast over.” 

“ Young ladies ought not to go out alone like that,” 


A DAUGHTER OP HETH . 


278 

said the Whaup, who had suddenly acquired serious 
aud even gloomy notions of propriety. • 

His elderly friend took him to the window. Before 
them lay the long terraces of the park, the deep valley, 
the trees, the river, and the opposite heights, all gleam- 
ing in a pallid and smoky sunshine. And on the ter- 
race underneath the window there was a bench, and on 
the bench sat, all by herself, a young person, whose 
downcast face, bent over a book, was hidden underneath 
a white sunshade ; and there was nothing at all by which 
to distinguish the stranger but her faintly yellow morn- 
ing dress, that shone palely in the sun. Yet you should 
have seen how swiftly the Whaup’s face cleared. In 
about thirty seconds he had taken an unceremonious 
farewell of Lady Drum, and hastened down into the 
park. 

“You must not come to see me every day,” said 
Coquette ; “ you do give up all your work.” 

“ But look here, Coquette,” he remarked, gravely, 
“ isn’t it the proper thing to pay a visit of ceremony 
after a dinner-party ? ” 

“ At ten o’clock in the forenoon ? ” she said, with a 
smile. “ Four o’clock is the time for such calls, and it 
is not to me you pay them.” 

He made no reply ; but he drew away the book 
from her lap, and quietly shut it and put it in his pocket. 
Then he said, — 

“ We are going to have a stroll through the Botanic 
Gardens.” 

So she surrendered herself, her only protest being a 
well-simulated sigh, at which he laughed, and away 
they went. Glasgow College, and all its class-rooms, 
might have been in the Philippine Islands for anything 
that the Whaup remembered of them. 

Many and many a time during that long and devious 
saunter, which took them a good deal farther than the 
Botanic Gardens, the Whaup, with that strange dissatis- 
faction with their present happiness which distinguishes 
lovers and fills the most fortunate period of human life 
with trouble, would drag back their aimless and wander* 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


279 


in g talk to the reasons Coquette had for being appre- 
hensive of the future. Why was she disinclined to 
speak of a possible limit to the number of years he had 
yet to wait? Why did she almost pathetically counsel 
him to fix his affections on some one else ? 

Coquette replied gravely, and sometimes a little 
sadly, to these questions, but she had not the courage 
to tell him the whole truth. There was something so 
touching in the very trust that he reposed in her, in 
the frank and generous way that he appealed to her, and 
took it for granted that she would become his wife, that, 
in the meantime, she dared not tell him that her heart 
still wandered away to another man. He did not know 
that his protestations of love sounded coldly in her ears, 
and only suggested what they would have been had 
they been uttered by another. He thought it strange 
that she was glad to get away from those little confess- 
ions and wondering hopes which are the common talk of 
lovers, and would far rather have him speak to her about 
his professional future, or even the details of his college 
life. 

For herself, she seemed to think it enough if her 
cousin were pleased to walk with her; and some day, 
she doubted not, she would yield to his urgent wishes 
and become his wife. By that time was it not likely 
that the strange unrest in her heart, that vague longing 
for the presence of one whose name she scarcely ever 
mentioned, would have died utterly away ? And in 
the remote possibility of giving herself to her cousin, was 
it not her duty now to try to eradicate that hapless love 
which had far more of pain than of pleasure in it ? While 
the Whaup was eagerly sketching out the life which he 
and she should live together, Coquette was trying to 
make up her mind never again to see Lord Earlshope. 

But it was a hard trial, A woman may marry this 
man or that man ; hef affections may shift and alter, but 
she never forgets the man she loved with all the wonder 
and idealism and devotion of a girl's early love. Co- 
quette asked herself whether she would ever forget Airlie, 
3.nd the stolen interviews of those spring mornings, and 


280 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


the pathetic farewells that the sea and the sky and the 
shining landscape alone knew. 

“ Dreaming again ? ” said the Whaup, gently. “ I 
suppose you don’t know that that is a river you are 
looking at ? ” 

They were standing on the small wooden bridge that 
crosses the Kelvin, and she was gazing into the water as 
if it were a mirror on which all the future years were re-J 
fleeted. 

“ Does this river go to the sea ? ” she asked. 

“ Most rivers do,” replied the Whaup, proud, like a 
man, of the superior scientific knowledge. 

“ And perhaps in a day or two it will see Arran.” 

“ Why, you talk as if you were already anxious to 
leave Glasgow and go back,” said the Whaup. “ What . 
amusement can there be for you there ? My father is 
buried in that Concordance. Lady Drum is here. 
Earlshope is deserted — by the way, I wonder what ha$ 
become of Lord Earlshope.” 

“ Let us go,” said Coquette, hastily ; and she took 
her arm off the wooden parapet of the bridge and went 
away. The Whaup did not perceive that his mention of 
Lord Earlshope’s name had struck a jarring note. 

So they went leisurely into Glasgow again, and all 
the way Coquette skilfully avoided conversation about ’ 
the matters which were naturally uppermost in her com- j 
panion’s mind. Indeed, a discovery which she had made 
greatly helped her out of the dilemma, and enlivened the 
remainder of their walk. She inadvertently slipped into 
French in making some remark, and the Whaup quickly 
replied to her in the same tongue. She was surprised 
and delighted beyond measure. She had no idea of 
his having studied hard since he left Airlie to extend the 
small acquaintance with the language he had picked up 
as a boy. She saw well what had urged him to do so, 
and she was pleased by this occult compliment. She in- 
sisted on their talking nothing but French all the way - 
home ; and the Whaup, with occasional stammering, 
laughing, and blushing, managed to sustain the conver- 
sion with tolerable ease and fluency. She corrected 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


281 


his idioms, very gently, it is true ; and also hinted that 
he might, if he liked, adopt the familiar tutoiement which 
ought to exist between cousins. 

“ But I can’t,” said the Whaup. “ My conversation 
, books have taught me to say vous ; and so, until I learn, 
you must call me tu , and I will call you anything that 
comes uppermost.” 

This and all that followed was spoken in rough-and- 
ready French, the grammar of which was a good deal 
: better than its pronunciation ; and the care which the 
Whaup had to bestow on his language lent an unroman- 
tic and matter-of-fact character to the subject of their 
| talk, to Coquette’s great relief. 

When they had reached the house she said, — 

“ You must come in and make an apology to Lady 
Drum for your inattention. Then you will have a little 
lunch. Then you will go home and attend to your 
j studies until the evening. Then you will come here and 
j go with us to the theatre ; and you may bring a bouquet 
i for Lady Drum, if you choose.” 

“ Any more commands, Coquette ? ” he said. 
“ What, nothing more ? How many lines of Greek must 
I do if I am disobedient ? ” 

“You must not be rude to me,” she remarked, 
“ because that is a trace of your bringing up at Airlie, 
which you have nearlv forgotten. It is a relic of your 
savage nature. You are much improved ; you are al- 
most civilized.” 

“Yes,” said the Whaup, “ I saw a cart of turnips 
go by yesterday quite unprotected from behind, and I 
did not steal one. Hillo ! who is that sitting with Lady 
Drum at the window ? ” 

Coquette looked up, and did not betray the least 
emotion, although a sharp spasm shot across her heart. 

“ It is Lord Earlshope, is it not ? ” she said, in a low 
voice. 

“ Yes,” said the Whaup, with a sudden coldness in 
his tone, and returning at once to his English. “ It is 
rather singular he should come here just now, but that 
is his own affair. No one ever could tell what he would 




4 DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


do next. Coquette, I don’t think I shall go into the 
house just now, you make my excuse to Lady Drum.” 

“ Very well,” said Coquette, calmly. 

She held out her hand to . bid him good-bye. He 
was surprised. He expected she would have insisted on 
his going into the house; and on the contrary, she 
seemed rather relieved that he was going away. 

“ What is the matter, Coquette ? ” he asked. “ Are 
you vexed because I am going away ? Very well, I will 
go in ; come along.” 

And with that he went up the steps ; but he could 
not tell by her face whether or not she had been annoyed 
by his wishing to go. They entered the house together. 
Lord Earlshope rose as they went into the room, and 
stepped forward to meet Coquette, and the Whaup 
watched the manner in which she advanced to shake 
hands with him. Why were her eyes cast down, and 
her face a trifle pale ? She answered in an almost in- 
audible way the kindly inquiries- which Lord Earlshope, 
whose manner was quite unconstrained, frank, and 
courteous, made as to her having enjoyed her visit to 
Glasgow. The Whaup himself, in shaking hands with 
his rival, was constrained to admit that there was some- 
thing pleasant and friendly in Lord Earlshope’s man- 
ner, and in the look of his clear light-blue eye, which 
rather disarmed suspicion. In a very few minutes the 
Whaup had completely thawed, and was laughing 
heartily at a letter sent by Mr. Gillespie, the school- 
master, which Lord Earlshope read aloud to Lady 
Drum. 

Nevertheless as he went to his lodgings he was con- 
siderably disquieted. He did not like leaving Lord Earls- 
hope in the company of Coquette. It seemed to him 
an infringement of that right of property which he had 
acquired by her promise. In the old days he was vague- 
ly jealous, and was inclined to be rudely suspicious of 
Coquette’s small prevarications ; but his jealousy and 
his rudeness were readily dissipated whenever he came 
under the influence of Lord Earlshope’s good-nature or 
of Coquette’s gentle solicitude. Now he had a greatei 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


2^3 

right to look after her. Had he not sworn in the olden 
time to take care of her, and be her champion ? Alas ! 
the Whaup had yet to learn that a woman is best left to 
take care of herself in such delicate matters, and that 
no guard can be placed on the capricious wanderings of 
her affection. 


CHAPTER XLII. 

AT THE THEATRE. 

Lord Earlshope and Lady Drum had been care- 
lessly chatting at the window when the Whaup an 1 
Coquette drew near. They saw them walking up the 
slopes of the park to the house, and Lord Earlshope 
said, — 

“ What a handsome fellow Tom Cassilis has grown. 
I have never seen any young fellow alter so rapidly.” 

“ Has he not ? ” said Lady Drum, with a little touch 
of pride, for she fancied that both these young people 
somehow belonged to her. “ I should like to see them 
married.” 

It is possible that this artless exclamation on the 
part of the old lady was put out as a feeler. She liked 
Tom Cassilis welf enough ; but, being mortal and a wo- 
man, she must have wondered sometimes whether Co- 
quette might not wed a lord ; especially a lord who had 
frequently betrayed his admiration for her. But when 
she said this Lord Earlshope betrayed no surprise. He 
merely said, — 

“ They will make a handsome pair ; and many a man 
will envy young Cassilis his good fortune.” 

Lady Drum was a trifle disappointed. Was there 
no mystery at all, then, connected with those romantic 
episodes in the Highlands ? Lord Earlshope talked of 
her protegee as if she were merely some ordinary country 


284 


A DAUGHTER OE HE Til. 


girl who was about to marry and become the mistress of 
a household ; whereas all the men she had heard talk of 
Coquette spoke of her as something rare and wonderful. 
Lady Drum was almost sorry that she had asked him to 
join them at the theatre that evening ; but she reflected 
that if Lord Earlshope were so indifferent, the peaceful 
progress of the two cousins towards marriage was ren- 
dered all the more secure. She only thought that Co- 
quette would have made a beautiful and charming hostess 
to preside over the hospitalities of Earlshope. 

“ Ho, ho ! ” said Lady Drum, when Coquette came 
down to dinner dressed for the theatre. “ We have made 
our toilette something just quite extraordinary. Mr. 
Thomas is a fortunate youth to have so much done for 
him.” 

“ I do not dress for him, or for any one,” said Co- 
quette, with an air of calm magnificence. 

“ Certainly not, certainly not ! ” cried Sir Peter, gayly. 
“ Too much beauty and grace, and all that is delightful 
on earth, to be bestowed on any one man. You will ap- 
peal to the theatre, my dear, to the whole theatre, and 
there won’t be a look left for the stage. And what is 
the hour at which we go to captivate all the young men 
in the place, and dazzle our rivals with the flash of our 
eyes, when are we going, going, going ? ha, ha I trollol, 
trollol, trollol ! ” 

“ I wish, Sir Peter, you would not sing at your dinner. 
It is a strange sort o’ grace,” observed Lady Drum, 
severely. 

“ A natural one, my lady, natural. Don’t the black- 
birds whistle among the cherry-trees, and the pigs grunt 
with delight over their meat ? I would whistle like a 
blackbird if I could, to amuse Miss Coquette, you know, 
but as it is ” 

“ You prefer to copy the pig,” remarked Lady Drum, 
with scorn. 

“ Too bad, isn’t it, Miss Coquette ? And I was get- 
ting as gay as a bullfinch in thinking of the wild dissi- 
pation of accompanying you to the theatre. And there 
will be many a young fellow there, you will see, who wil. 


A DA UGH TER OF HETH. 


285 

scowl at me, and wish he was in my shoes ; but don’t 
you heed them, my dear. Old men like myself are far 
more to be depended on. What does your French song 
say ?— 

‘ Jeunesse trop coquette, 

Ecoutez la lecon 
Que vous fait Henriette, 

Et son amant Damon — ’ 

Do not start, my lady, that is not bad language ; it is the 
name of Henriette’s lover; and don’t I wish Henriette, 
or any similar bewitching young creature, would take the 
trouble to teach me a lesson ! I’d sit as mum as a 
mouse ” 

“ Sir Peter,” remarked Lady Drum, “ you must have 
dined elsewhere.” 

“No such luck, my dear,” remarked her husband, 
cheerfully. “ I mean I have not had the chance of get- 
ting any wine, which is your ungenerous insinuation. 
But now, but now — we will drink deep of heavy flagons 
until the most ill-favored ballet-girl appear an angel. 
What, ho, there ! wine, wine ! ” 

The fact was that at the door there were standing 
two servants, who dared not enter until their master was 
done with his private theatricals. When they had come 
in, and the glasses were filled, Sir Peter, whose perform- 
ances as a thirsty soul fell far short of his professions, 
pledged a bumper to Coquette and her coming conquests, 
and wound up his speech with a pretty and sentimental 
French toast, the pronunciation of which reminded Co 
quette of the Whaup’s efforts in the morning. 

This going to the theatre was quite an excitement for 
Coquette, who had not visited any such place of amuse- 
ment since she left France. Lady Drum warned her 
not to say anything about it in her letters to Airlie, or 
the chances were that the Minister would order her re 
call from Glasgow at once. 

“ And my cousin,” said Coquette, “ has he never been 
to any theatre ? ” 

* more than I can say,” remarked Lady Drum 


286 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


When at length they drove down to the big building, 
and went up the broad staircase, and got into the corri- 
dor, there was an odor of escaped gas and a confused 
sound of music which quite delighted Coquette, it was 
so like the odor and the sound prevalent in the theatres 
she had visited long ago in France.. And when they got 
into the box, which was the biggest in the theatre, they 
found the Whaup already there, with two bouquets await- 
ing Lady Drum and Coquette. Lady Drum, naturally 
taking the place of honor, was perhaps a little glad to 
screen herself in her corner by the curtains ; but Co- 
quette, with the calm air of a princess, and with her 
brilliant toilette getting a new splendor from the gleam- 
ing lights of the house, took her seat, and lifted her bou- 
quet, and made the Whaup a pretty speech of thanks 
which filled his heart with pleasure, and then turned her 
attention to the stage. 

“Shall I ever be able,” said the Whaup to himself, as 
he looked wistfully at her, “ to give her pretty dresses 
like that, and buy her pearls for her neck and her hair, 
and take her to all the amusements ? ” 

The young gentleman was rather proud, and would 
not even acknowledge to himself that Coquette could buy 
pearls for herself, and pay for far more amusements than 
she cared to see. 

The performances need not be described in detail. 
They consisted, in the first place, of a romantic drama of 
the good old kind, in which a lot of very pronounced char- 
acters, whose virtues and vices they took every oppor- 
tunity of revealing to the audience, did impossible things 
in impossible places, and talked a language unfamiliar to 
any nation at present inhabiting the earth. This piece 
was to be followed by a burlesque, for which Sir Peter 
professed himself to be impatient. 

“ For,” said he, “there is in every burlesque a young- 
lady with a saucy face and pretty ankles, with whom you 
can fall in love for an hour or two with impunity. And I 
am anxious for her appearance, because Miss 
has quite deserted me, and I am left out •' 

The truth is. Coquette h^ 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


2 87 

quite astonishing familiarity with this theatre. He was 
acquainted with all its arrangements, and seemed to know 
the name of everybody in connection with it. Now how 
had he gained this knowledge ? 

“ Oh, I do see that the life of the students is not all 
study,” Coquette remarked, with a gracious sarcasm. 
“ You do sometimes find them singing ‘ Come lasses and 
lads/ and they do waste time with tobacco and laughing, 
and even know a good deal about the actresses of the thea- 
tre. Why was none of that in your letters to Airlie ? ” 

“ Well, I’ll tell you the truth, Coquette,” said the 
Whaup, with a laugh and a blush that became his hand- 
some face well. “ I dare not tell anybody at Airlie I went 
to the theatre ; nor do I think I should have gone in any 
case but for a notion I had that, somehow or other, you 
must like the theatre. You never told me that, you know, 
but I guessed it from, — from, — from ” 

“ From my manner, or my talk ? You do think me 
an actress, then ? ” 

“ No it is not that at all,” said the Whaup. “ You 
are too sincere and simple in your ways. But somehow 
I thought that, with your having been brought up in the 
South, and accustomed to a Southern liking for enjoy- 
ment and artistic things, and with your sympathy for 
fine colors, and for music, and all that, why, I thought, 
Coquette, you would be sure to like the theatre ; and so, 
do yop know, I used to come here very often, not here, 
of course, but away up there to that dark gallery, and I 
used to sit and think what the theatre would be like when 
Coquette came to see it.” 

He spoke quite shyly ; for, indeed, he half fancied she 
might laugh at these romantic dreamings of his when he 
was far away from her in the big city ; but when he ven- 
tured to steal a glance at her face, lo ! the dark eyes were 
quite moist. And she pretended to look down into the 
circle of flowers he had given her, and said in a low 
voice, — 

“ You have been thinking of me very much when I 
was down in Airlie, and you here by yourself. I do not 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


288 


deserve it, but I will show my gratitude to you some 
day.” 

“ Why, Coquette,” he said, “ you need not thank me 
for it. Only to think of you was a pleasure to me ; the 
only pleasure I had all that long winter time.” 

Had Lady Drum heard the whispered little sentences 
which passed between these two young folks, she might, 
perhaps have thought that they expressed far more gen- 
uine emotion than the bursts of rhetoric in which, on the 
stage, the lucky lover was declaring his passion for the 
plump and middle-aged heroine. But they took care she 
should hear nothing of it. 

Presently in came Lord Earlshope with his crush-hat 
under his arm ; and he, also, had brought two bouquets. 
The Whaup noticed, with a passing twinge of mortifica- 
tion, that these were far finer and more delicate flowers 
than he had been able to buy, and he expected to see his 
own poor gifts immediately laid aside. But he did not 
know Coquette. She thanked Lord Earlshope very gra- . 
ciously for the flowers, and said how fortunate it was he 
had brought them. 

“For I do always like to throw a bouquet to the 
actress, after her long evening’s work, yet I was becom- 
ing sorry to give her the flowers that my cousin did bring 
me. But you have brought one for her, too, if I may 
give it to her ? ” 

“ Why, of course,” said Lord Earlshope, who probably 
did not put such value on a handful of flowers as did the 
Whaup ; “ and when you wish to give it to her, let me 
pitch it on the stage, or you will certainly hit the man 
at the drum.” 

“ But you must keep them for the young lady of 
the burlesque,” said Sir Peter ; “ She is always better- 
looking than the heroine of the drama, isn’t she ? Then 
you have a greater opportunity of judging.” 

“ Why ? ” said Lady Drum, with a look of such 
severity as effectually to prevent her husband answer- 
ing, instead, he turned away and gayly hummed some- 
thing about 


“Ecoutez la lecon 
Que vous fait Henriette.” 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


289 

But there was another woman in the theatre who had 
attracted their attention before Lord Earlshope had ar- 
rived. She was seated in the corner of the box opposite, 
and, as a rule, was hidden behind the curtain. When 
they did get a glimpse of her, her manner and appear- 
ance was so singular as to attract a good deal of atten- 
tion. She was of middle height, stout, with rather a 
florid face, coal-black hair, and a wild, uncertain look, 
which was seldom fixed on any object for two minutes 
together. Oddly enough, she stared over at Coquette 
in rather a peculiar way, until that young lady studi- 
ously kept her eyes on the stage, and would not glance 
over to the occupant of the opposite box. 

“ Singular-looking woman, isn’t she ? ” said Sir Peter. 
“ Opium, eh ! eh ! Is that opium that makes her eyes 
so wild ? She drinks, I swear, and seems mad with 
drink, eh ! eh ! What do you say, Cassilis ? ” 

“ I wish you would not talk of that person,” said 
Lady Drum, and then the conversation dropped. 

About a quarter of an hour after Lord Earlshope 
had come into the theatre, this woman apparently re- 
tired from her corner behind the curtain, then walked 
forward from the back of the box to the front of it, and 
there stood at full length, looking over, with an odd ex- 
pression of amusement on her face, at the group, in front 
of Lady Drum’s box. ‘This movement was noticed by 
the whole theatre, and certainly it was observed by Lord 
Earlshope, for, during one second, his eyes seemed to 
be fixed on this woman, and then, still looking at her, 
he retreated a step or two from the front of the box, with 
his face become quite white. 

“ What is the matter ? ” said Lady Drum, anxiously, 
for he had been speaking to her. “ You have become 
very pale, are you ill ? ” 

“ Lady Drum, I wish to speak with you privately for a 
moment,” he said, 'quite calmly, but with a singular con- 
straint of manner that somewhat alarmed her. 

She rose at once and followed him into the corridor 
outside. There he stood, quite composed, and yet very 
pale. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


2 $0 

“ Would you mind taking Miss Cassilis home at 
once ? ” he said. 

“ Take her home ! Why ? ” 

“I cannot tell you why,” he said, with some show of 
anxiety and impatience. “ I cannot tell you why, but I 
wish, Lady Drum, you would. I beg you, I entreat 
you, to take her away instantly.” 

“ But why ? ” said the old lady, who was at once per- 
plexed and alarmed.. 

“You saw that woman opposite,” said Lord Earls- 
hope, rather abandoning the calmness of his demeanor. 
“ She will come round here presently, I know she will ; 
she will go into the box ; she will insult Miss Cassilis; 
for Heaven’s sake, Lady Drum, get her out of the way 
of that woman ! ” 

“ Bless me ! ” said Lady Drum, elevating her eye- 
brows, “ are we a’ to be frightened out o’ our wits by a 
mad woman, and three men with us ? And if there 
was no one with us,” she added, drawing herself up, “ I 
am not afraid of the girl being insulted if she is under 
my care. And what for should any woman, mad as she 
may be, fasten upon us ? My certes ! I will see that 
she does not come near the girl, or my name is not 
Margaret Ainslie.” 

For a moment or two Lord Earlshope stood irreso- 
lute, with mortification and anxiety plainly visible on 
his pale features. Then he said, suddenly, — 

“ I must tell you at once, Lady Drum. I have many 
a time determined to do so, but put it off until now, 
when I can be silent no longer. That woman in the 
theatre just now, a woman soddened and mad with 
brandy, is my wife ; at least she was my wife some years 
ago. Goodness knows, I have no reason to be afraid 
of her ! but one ; it is for the sake of Miss Cassilis I beg 
you, Lady Drum, to take her away, out of her reach ; 
she is a woman of outrageous passions ; a scene in a pub- 
lic place will have all the excitement of a new sort of 
drunkenness for her ” 

To all these incoherent ejaculations, Lady Drum only 
replied, — 


\ 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


291 

“ Your wife ! ” 

“ This is not a time to blame me for anything,” he 
said, hurriedly. “ I cannot give you any explanations 
just now. You don’t know why I should have concealed 
my marriage with this horrible woman, but you will not 
blame me when you hear. All I want is to secure Miss 
Cassilis’s safety.” 

“ That,” said Lady Drum, with perfect quiet, “ is se- 
cure in my keeping. You need not be afraid, Lord 
Earlshope, she is quite secure where she is.” 

“ You mean to keep her in the theatre ? ” 

“ Most certainly.” 

“ Then I will go. If I leave, her whim may change ; 
but I see from her laughing to herself that she means 
mischief. I cannot charge my own wife at the police 
office.” 

He left the theatre there and then. Lady Drum re- 
turned to the box, and made some sort of apology for 
Lord Earlshope’s absence. But she did not see much 
of what was going on upon the stage, for her thoughts 
were busy with many strange things that she now rec- 
ollected as having been connected with Lord Earlshope ; 
and sometimes she turned from Coquette’s face to glance 
at the box opposite. Coquette was thoroughly enjoying 
the piec£ ; the woman in the box opposite her remained 
hidden, and was apparently alone. 


CHAPTER XLIII 

COQUETTE IS TOLD. 

Lady Drum began to get afraid. Should she send 
Coquette at once back to Airlie ? Her first impulse, on 
hearing the disclosures made by Lord Earlshope at the 
theatre, was one of indignation and anger against him- 
self, for having, as she thought, unnecessarily acted a 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


292 

lie during so many years, and deceived his friends. She 
now understood all the strange references he had often 
made to married life ; the half-concealed and bitter irony 
of his talk ; his nervous susceptibility on certain 'points ; 
his frequent appearance of weariness, and hopelessness, 
as of a man to whom life was no longer of any value. 
She was amazed at the morbid sense of shame which 
made this man so anxious to avoid the confession of his 
having made a desperate blunder in his youth. Why 
had he gone about under false colors ? Why had he im- 
posed on his friends ? Why had he spoken to Coquette 
as a possible lover might have spoken ? 

This thought of Coquette flashed upon Lady Drum 
as a revelation. She knew now why the fact of Lord 
Earlshope’s marriage had made her angry ; and she at 
once did him the justice of remembering that, so far as 
she knew, he had made no pretensions to be the lover of 
Coquette. That had been Lady Drum’s -secret hope : 
he could not be blamed for it. 

But, at the same time, there was something about the 
relations between Lord Earlshope and Coquette which 
she did not wholly understand ; and as she felt herself 
peculiarly responsible for that young lady, she began to 
ask herself if she had not better make sure by sending 
Coquette home to her uncle. Lady Drum sat in a 
corner of her morning-room, and looked down from the 
window on the park. Coquette was sitting there as 
usual, for there was sunshine abroad, which she loved as 
a drunkard, loves drink, and she was leisurely reading a 
book under the shadow of her sunshade. How quiet and 
happy she looked, buried away from all consciousness of 
the world around her in that other world of romance 
that lay unfolded on her knee. Lady Drum had got to 
love the girl with a mothers tenderness, and as she now 
looked down on her she wondered what precautions 
could be taken to render the fair young life inviolate 
from wrong and suffering, if that were possible. 

First of all she wrote a note to Lord Earlshope, and 
sent it down to his hotel, asking him to call on her im- 
mediately. She wished to have further explanations be- 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH 


2 93 


fore saying anything to Sir Peter, or, indeed, to any one 
oi the little circle that had been formed at Airlie. At 
the moment she was writing this letter Lord Earlshope 
was walking quickly up to the place where Coquette sat. 

“ Ah, it is you ! I do wish much to see you for a 
few moments,” she said, with something of gladness in 
her face. 

He did not reply ; but sat down beside her, his lips 
firm and his brow clouded. She did not notice this 
alteration from his ordinary demeanor, but immediately 
proceeded to say, in rather a low voice, and with her 
eyes grown serious and even anxious, — • 

J< I have much to say to you. I have been thinking 
over all our position with each other, and I am going 
to ask you for a favor. First of all I will tell you a 
secret.” 

Why did she look constrained, and even agitated ? 
he asked himself. Had she already heard from Lady 
Drum ? Her fingers were working nervously with the 
book before her ; her breath seemed to go and come 
more quickly, and her voice was almost inaudible. 

“This is what I must tell you,” she said, with her 
eyes fixed on the ground. “ I have promised to my 
cousin to be his wife. I did tell you I should do that, 
and now it is done and he is glad. I am not glad, per- 
haps, not now, but afterwards it may be different. And 
so, as I am to be his wife, I do not think it is right I 
should see you any more ; and I will ask you to go away 
now altogether, and when we do meet, here, or in Airlie, it 
will be the same with us as strangers. You will do this 
for my sake, will you not ? It is much to ask ; I shall 
,be more sorry than you, perhaps ; but how can I see 
you if I am to marry him ? ” 

“ And so we are to be strangers^, Coquette/’ he said 
quite calmly. “ It is all over, then. We have had some 
pleasant dreaming, but the daylight has come, and the 
work of the world. When we meet each other, as you 
say, it will be as strangers, as on the first morning I 
saw you at Airlie, driving up the road in the sunlight, 
nnd was glad to know that you were going to remain at 


294 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


the Manse. All that happened down at Airlie is to be 
forgotten ; and you and I are just like two people pass- 
ing each other in the street, and not expecting, perhaps, 
ever to meet again. Yet there are some things which 
neither you nor I shall ever forget.” 

“ Ah, I know that, I know that ! ” said Coquette al- 
most wildly. “Do not speak of that now. Sometimes 
I do think I cannot do as my cousin wishes ; I become 
afraid ; I cannot speak to him ; I begin to tremble when 
I think of all the long years to come. Alas ! I have 
sometimes wondered whether I shall live till then.” 

“ Coquette, what do you mean ? ” &e said. “ Have 
you resolved to make your life miserable ? Is this how 
you look forward to marriage, which ought to be the 
happiest event in a woman’s life and the seal of all the 
happiness to come after ? What have you done, Co- 
quette ? ” 

“ I have done what I ought to do,” she said, “ and 
it is only at moments that I do fear of it. My cousin 
is very good ; he is very fond of me ; he will break his 
heart if I do not marry him. And I do like him very 
well, too. Perhaps, in some years, I shall have forgotten 
a great deal of all that is past now, and shall have come 
to be very fond of him, too ; and it will be a pleasure to 
me to become his wife. You must not be sorry for me. 
You must not think it is a sacrifice, or anything like 
that. When I am afraid now ; when I am sad too, so 
that I wish I could go away to France, and not see any 
more of this country, it is only when I do think of Airlie, 
you know, and of — of ” 

She never finished the sentence, because her lips 
were beginning to quiver. And for a moment, too, his 
look had grown absent, as if he were calling up mem- 
ories of the days of their meeting on the moor ; meetings 
which were but recent, and yet which now seemed buried 
far away in the white mists of the past. All at once he 
seemed to rouse himself, and said, with some abrupt- 
ness, — 

“ Coquette, you do not blame me for being unable to 
help you in your distress. I am going to tell you why 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


2 95 


I cannot. I am going to tell you what will render it 
unnecessary for me to promise not to see you again ; 
for you will hate the sight of me, and consider me not 
fit to be spoken to by any honest man or woman. Many 
and many a time have I determined to tell you ; and 
yet it seemed so hard that I should make you my enemy, 
that you should go away only with contempt for me ” 

She interrupted him quickly, and with some alarm 
on her face,— 

“Ah, I know,” she said. “You will tell me some* 
thing you have done ; why ? What is the use of that 
now ? I do not wish to hear it. I wish to think of you 
always as I think now ; and when I look back at our 
last meeting in Glasgow, you sitting there, I here, and 
bidding good-bye to all that time which began down in 
Airlie, I shall have pleasure of it, even if I cry about it. 
Why you tell me this thing ? What is the use ? Is it 
wise to do it ? I have seen you often about to tell me 
a secret. I have seen you disturbed and anxious ; and 
sometimes I have wondered, too, and wished to know. 
But then I did think there was enough trouble in the 
world without adding this ; and I hoped you would remain 
to me always as you were then, when I did first begin 
to know you.” 

“ Why, Coquette,’’ he said, with a strange, half-ten- 
der look of admiration, “your generosity shames me all 
the more, and shows me what a horribly selfish wretch 
I have been. You don’t half seem to know how good 
you are.” 

His voice dropped a little here, as there was some 
one coming along the road. Lord Earlshope and Co- 
quette both sat silent, and did not look up until the stran- 
ger passed. 

“ Coquette,” he said, suddenly, with a great effort, 
“ I must tell you now all the story of my shame and dis- 
grace. The woman you saw at the theatre last night ; 
that woman I married when I was a mere boy. I have 
not seen her for years. I was almost beginning to for- 
get that this horrible weight and blight hung over my 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


296 

life, but how can I explain to you without telling you 
who and what she is, and how can I tell you that story ! ” 

He was watching every line of her face, with an an- 
xious sadness, to gather what her first impulse would be. 
And yet he felt that in uttering these words he had for- 
ever disgraced himself in her eyes, and deserved only to 
be thrust away from her with horror and shame. Indeed, 
he waited to hear her own lips pronounce his own con- 
demnation and decree his banishment. 

Coquette looked up, regarded him steadily, and held 
out her hand, and said, — 

“ I know it all now, and am very sorry for you.” 

“ But don’t you remember all that I have done, Co- 
quette ? ” with wonder in his look. “ I am not fit to 
take your hand. But if you would only listen to me for 
a moment, that is all I ask. Will you sit down, Coquette ? 
I cannot excuse myself, but I want to tell you some- 
thing.” 

“ You have had a sad life,” said Coquette, calmly. 
“ I do now know the reason of many things, and I can 
not be angry. It is no use to be angry now, when we 
are going away from each other.” 

“ You saw that woman,” he said, sinking down on the 
seat with an expression of the most utter and hopeless 
despair. “ I married her when I was a lad fresh from 
college. I met her in Paris ; I was travelling ; she, too, 
was going about with her father, who called himself an 
officer. I followed hei from town to town, and in three 
months I was married. Married ! chained to a wild 
beast rather. When I got to know the hideous habits 
of the woman to whom I was indissolubly linked, suicide 
was my first thought. What other refuge had I from 
a state of things that was worse than anything death 
could bring on me ? The law cannot step in between 
her and me. Brutal and debased as she is, she has far 
too good a notion of the advantages of a tolerable income 
to risk it by doing anything on which I could claim a 
divorce. Ignorant and passionate she is, but she is 
not a fool in money matters ; and so there was nothing 
for it but to buy up her absence by paying any price for 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


297 


it. I discovered what sort of woman she was before we 
ever returned to England ; and when I came back here, 
I came alone. I dreaded the exposure of the blunder I had 
committed, partly on my own account, but chiefly on ac- 
count of the disgrace I had brought on my family. How 
could I introduce a drunken and insolent woman to my 
friends, and have them insulted by her open defiances of 
decency ? Year after year I lived down there at Earlshope, 
hearing only of her wild escapades from a distance. I 
exacted from her, as a condition of giving her more than 
the half of my income, a promise to drop my name ; and 
then she assumed one with which the London magis- 
trates are familiar. The stories about her came to me 
down at Earlshope, until I dared scarcely open a news 
paper; and I grew to hate the very sight of a -woman, 
as being related to the devil who had ruined my life. 
And then you came to Airlie.” 

He paused for a moment. She had never before 
seen him so moved. 

“ I looked in your pure and young face, and I thought 
the world seemed to grow more wholesome and sweet. 
I began to believe that there were tender and true-hearted 
women in the world ; and sometimes I thought what I 
might have been too, but for that irremediable blunder. 
Fancy some sinner in hell, who is tortured by remorse 
over the sins and lost opportunities of his life, and there 
comes to him a bunch of pale violets, sweet with the 
fragrant memories of his youth, when the world was 
young and fair to him, and he believed ^n the girl who 
was walking with him, and in the heaven over his head.” 

“ Ah, do not talk like that ! ” she said. “ It is more 
terrible than all you have told me.” 

“ You do not know the condition into which I had 
sunk. To you I was a mere idler, easy tempered, who 
walked about the country and amused himself indolent- 
ly. To myself I was a sepulchre, filled with the^lead 
bones and dust of buried hopes and beliefs. What 
had I to live for ? When I went about and saw 
other .men enjoying the corrfforts of happy domestic 
relations, men who had a home, and a constant com^ 


298 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


panion and confidante to share their holiday excur- 
sions or their quiet summer evenings, my own v.iitude 
and wretchedness were all the more forcibly thrust 
on me. I shut myself up in that house at Airlie. It 
was enough if the days passed, and left me in the en- 
joyments of hunger and thirst. Goodness knows, I did | 
not complain much, or seek to revenge myself on society 
for my own mistake. If my blunder, according to the 
existing state of the law, demanded so much punishment, 

I was willing to suffer it. During these solitary ' days I 
used to study myself as if there were another being be- 
side me, and watch how the last remnants of belief in 
anything were being gradually worn away, bit by bit, by 
the irritation of this sense of wrong. If you bad known 
me as I really was when you first saw me, you would 
have shrunk away in fear. Do you remember the morn- 
ing I got up on the dog-cart to talk to you ? ” 

“ Yes,” said Coquette, in a low voice. 

“For a few moments I forgot myself. When I 
left you at the Manse, I discovered to my intense as- 
tonishment that I was quite cheerful; that the world 
seemed ever so much brighter ; and that Airlie Moor 
looked well in the sunlight. Then I thought of your 
coming in among those gloomy Cameronians, and whether 
your light and happy Southern nature, which I saw 
even then, would conquer the prejudice and suspicion 
around you. It was a problem that interested me deeply. 
When I got to know you a little you used to tell me, 
inadvertently, how things were going on at the Manse, 
and I saw that the fight would be a hard one, but that 
you would win in the end. First of all, you took your 
cousin captive; that was natural. Then the Minister. 
Then you won over Leezibeth. There remains only 
Andrew now ; for I think you would secure a large 
majority in a plebiscite of the villagers. As for myself, 
that I can scarcely talk about just yet. It seemed so 
harmless a thing at first for me to see you, to have the 
comfort even of looking at you from a distance as you 
sat in the little church, or to pass you on the road, with 
a look and a smile. There was a new life in Airlie. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


2 99 


Sometimes I thought bitterly of what might have been 
but for the error which had ruined me ; but that 
thought disappeared in the actual enjoyment of your 
presence. Then I began to play with the danger that 
would have been more obvious to another man, but 
which I laughed at. For was it possible that I could 
fall in love, like a schoolboy, and sigh and write verses ? 
I began to make experiments with myself. You know 
the rest, Coquette ; but you do not know the remorse 
that struck me when I found that my thoughtlessness 
had prepared a great misery for you.” 

* It was no misery ; ” she said simply, “ it was a pleas- 
ure to me ; and if it was wrong, which I do not know, it 
comes to an end now. And you, I am not angry with 
you for your life has not been a happy one, and you did 
not know until we were up in the Highlands that it mat- 
tered to me, and then you went away.” 

“ Coquette,” he said, “ I won’t have you make excuses 
for me. I can make none for myself. When I look 
at you, and think of what I ought to have done when you 
came to Airlie — I should have told you there and then, 
and guarded against every possibility — I feel that I am 
an outcast. But who would have thought it possible ? ” 
he added, with his eyes grown distant and thoughtful. 
“ I do not know how it has all come about ; but you 
and I are sitting together here for the last time ; and we 
are going different ways, whither, who can tell ? ” 

With that Coquette rose; no trace of emotion vis- 
ble on the calm face. 

“ Good-bye.” she said. “ I will hear of you some- 
times through Lady Drum.” 

“ Good-bye, Coquette,” he said, taking her hand ; 
and then a strange expression came over his face, and 
he said, suddenly, “It is madness and wickedness to say 
it, but I will say it. Coquette, you will never forget 
that there is a man in the world who loves you better 
^than his own life ; who will venture everything that re- 
mains to him in this world and the next to do you the 
tiniest service. Will you remember that, always ? 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


Goodbye, Coquette; God bless you for your gentleness 
and your sweetness and your forgiveness ! ” 

She turned from him and walked away, and went up 
the steps towards the house, all by herself. As she 
passed through the hall Lady Drum met her, and asked 
her a question. The girl replied, quite calmly, though 
rather in a low voice, and passed on. Lady Drum was 
struck with the expression of her face, which was sin- 
gularly colorless and immobile, and she looked after her 
as she went up the stairs. Was there not something 
unsteady in her gait ? The old lady followed her, and 
w£nt to the door of her room and listened. A great 
fear struck her heart, for within there was a sound of wild 
weeping and sobbing ; and when she forthwith opened 
the door, and hurried into the room, she found Coquette 
sitting by the bedside, her face and hands buried in th$ 
clothes, and her slight frame trembling and convulsed 
with the passion of her grief. 

“ What is it, Coquette ? What is it, Coquette ? ” she 
cried, in great alarm. 

And she sat down by the girl, and drew her towards 
her bosom, as she would have done with her own child, 
and hid her face there. And then Coquette told her 
story. 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

coquette’s forebodings. 

Sir Peter was standing at the window, whistling ; 
not for a wind, but perhaps for an appetite. His hands 
were in his pockets, and his hat rather on the side of his 
head. When he heard the footsteps of his wife on thq, 
stair he removed his hat, she permitted no infringement 
of the ordinary rules of courtesy even by her husband. 

Lady Drum came in so hurriedly that he turned to 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


3 01 


see what was the matter. Indeed, she advanced upon 
him with such an air that he rather drew back, and cer- 
tainly stopped his whistling. It was clear that the grave 
and stately lady was for once in her life in a towering 
passion. 

“ Are you a man ? ” she said, with wrath in her voice. 

“ I hope so,” said Sir Peter, innocently. 

“ Then you know what you have to do. You have to 
go at once to Lord Earlshope, I have scarcely the pa- 
tience to name him, and tell him what every honest man 
and woman thinks of him ; what it is he deserves for con- 
duct unworthy of an African savage.” 

“ Good heavens, my lady ! ” cried Sir Peter, “ do you 
mean me to murder the man ? I am not Macbeth, and 
I won’t be goaded into murdering anybody. What the 
dickens is it all about ? What is the tragedy ? Has he 
stolen some spoons ? Whatever has turned you into a 
raging lionness ? ” 

It was Coquette who answered him. She had come 
into the room immediately after Lady Drum, and she 
now came up and interposed. 

“ It is all a mistake, Sir Peter,” she said, calmly. “ I 
did tell Lady Drum something ; she did not wait to hear 
it all. Lord Earlshope has done nothing to be blamed ; 
it is a misapprehension, a mistake.” 

“ Why, Lord Earlshope is a married man ! ” said 
Lady Drum, hotly. 

‘/That may be a crime, my dear,” said Sir Peter, 
mildly, “ but it is one that brtngs with it its own punish- 
ment.” 

“ Lady Drum,” said Coquette, in an entreating voice, 
“ I do wish you to come away. I will explain it all to 
you. Indeed, have I not the right to say you shall not 
tell any one what I have told you ? ” 

“ Certainly,” said Sir Peter. “ Who wants to betray 
a young lady’s secrets ? Take her away, my dear child, 
and pacify her. I am afraid to meddle with her.” 

Lady Drum stood irresolute. On the one side was 
the beseeching of Coquette, on the other was the feather- 
brained husband, who apparently would not interest him- 


302 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


self in anything but his lunch and his dinner. Yet the 
brave old Scotchwoman had a glow of indignation burn- 
ing in her cheeks over the wrong which she deemed to 
have been committed towards the girl intrusted to her 
charge. But Coquette put her hand on her arm, and 
gently led her away from the room. 

“ That’s right,” said Sir Peter to them, “ keep your 
secrets to yourselves, they are dangerous property to 
lend. I don’t want to hear any mysteries. I am for an 
easy life.” 

When they had gone, he said to himself, drumming 
with his fingers on the window-panes, — 

“ Earlshope married — not surprised at it. Very 
strange of a young man to live by himself down in the 
country. Made an ass of himself when he was a boy, 
doubtless ; ashamed of it ; proud of his family ; the woman 
pensioned off. But what has all this to do with Miss 
Coquette ? He can’t have been making love to her, for 
she is going to marry her cousin. Well, no matter ; 
mysteries are best left alone, and so are other people’s 
affairs. Shall it be sherry, sherry, sherry ? or hock, 
hock, hock? Hie, haec, hoc, and a hujus bunc of ham, 
as we used to say at school. Very bad joke, very bad, 
bad, bad — infernal ! ” 

But Lady Drum was in no such careless mood, and 
very piteously Coquette had to beg of her not to make 
an exposure of the matter. Indeed, the girl besought 
her so earnestly that Lady Drum was driven into warm 
language to defend herself, and at last she used the word 
“ infamous.” Then Coquette rose up, quite pale and 
proud, and said, — 

“ I am sorry you think that, Lady Drum. Why ? 
Because I must go from your house. If he is infamous, 
I am infamous too, for I do not think he has done any 
wrong.” 

“ Not done wrong !•” cried the old lady. “ Not done 
wrong ! A married man who trifles wi’ the affections 
of a young girl ! ” 

“ He did not do so,” said Coquette, calmly. “ It 
was a misfortune that happened to us both, that is all. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


303 


You do not know how he has vexed himself about 
this ; what he suffered before ; how we had determined 
not to see each other again. Ah, you do not un- 
derstand it at all, if you think he is to blame. He is 
very miserable, that is what I know, that is enough for 
me to know ; and if he has done wrong, I have too ; 
and yet, Lady Drum, if my mamma were here, I would 
go down on my knees before her, and I would tell her 
all about it from the first day at Airlie, and I do know 
she would not be angry with me for what I have done.” 

Coquette turned away her head. Lady Drum went 
to her, and drew her nearer to her, and hid her head in 
her arms. 

“ You are very unfortunate, my poor girl, for you are 
fond of him yet, are you not ? ” 

“ Oh, Lady Drum ! ” she cried, wildly, bursting into 
tears, “ I do love him better than everything in the 
world, and I cannot help it ; and now he is gone, I shall 
never see him again, neither here nor at Airlie, for he 
will not go back to Airlie ; and all I wish now is that I 
might be dead, and not wake up morning after morning 
to think of him far away.” 

“ Hush, child ! ” said the old woman, gravely. “You 
do not know what these wild words mean. You must 
teach yourself not to think of him. It is a sin to think 
of him.” 

“ But if I cannot help it,” sobbed the girl. “ If it 
always comes back to me, all that happened at Airlie, 
and when we were sailing in the summer-time, how can 
I help thinking of him, Lady Drum ? It is hard enough 
if I do not see him ; and I would like to see him only 
once, to say that I am sorry for him, and that, whatever 
people may say, I know, and I will remember, that he 
was a good man, and very gentle to me, and very kind 
to all people, as you know, Lady Drum.” 

“ You must think less of him, and more of yourself, 
my girl,” said the old lady, kissing her tenderly. “ It 
is a misfortune that has fallen over ye, as you say; but 
you are young yet, with plenty o’ life and spirits in ye, 
and ye must determine to cure yourself of an infatua- 


3°4 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


tion which is dangerous and mischievous. Coquette, 
what for do ye look like that ? Are ye in a trance ? 
Bestir yourself, my lassie, listen ! listen ! there is your 
cousin come, and he is talking to Sir Peter in the hall.” 
“ My cousin ? ” 

“ Yes/’ 

Coquette shuddered, and turned away her head. 

“ I cannot see him. Tell him, Lady Drum, I go 
back to Airlie to-morrow ; and I will see him when he 
comes in the autumn, perhaps.” 

“ Why do you say ‘ perhaps’ like that, Coquette ? ” 

“ The autumn is a long way off, is it not ? Perhaps 
he will not be able to see me ; but I shall be at Airlie 
then ; and perhaps I shall know that he has come into 
the churchyard to look for me.” 


CHAPTER XLV. 

A LEGEND OF EARLSHOPE. 

It was a wild night at Airlie. The sea could be 
heard breaking with tremendous force all along the 
shore, and the wind that blew about the moor brought 
with it occasional heavy showers of rain. Occasionally, 
too, there were rifts in the clouds, and a white gleam of 
moonlight would shine out and down on the dark land- 
scape. The villagers kept themselves snug and warm 
indoors, and were thankful they t were not out at sea on 
such a night. 

Earlshope was more sheltered ; but if the house it- 
self was not much shaken by the storm, its inmates 
could hear the moaning of the wind through the trees 
in the park, and the howling of the gusts that tore 
through the fir-wood lying overby the moor. The male 
servants had gone over to Greenock for some reason or 
others and as the women folks did not like to be quite 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIT. 


3°5 

left alone, the Pensioner had consented to come over 
from Airlie and sleep in the house that night. But first 
of all, of course, there was a general supper in the house- 
keeper’s room ; and then the Pensioner and the house- 
keeper and the two girls began to tell stories of old 
things that had happened in the neighborhood. By~and by 
that duty almost entirely developed upon the Pensioner, 
who was known to be skilled in legends ; and as he had 
also brought with him his fiddle, he set himself down 
generally to entertain the company, fortifying himself 
from time to time with a’ tumbler of whiskey-toddy, which 
the housekeeper carefully replenished. 

Somehow or other, as the night wore on, his Stories 
and his music assumed a more sombre and even weird 
and wild tinge. Perhaps the howling of the wind in the 
chimneys, or the more distant sound of its wailing 
through the big trees in the park, lent an air of melan- 
choly to the old ballads and legends he recited ; but at 
all events the circle of listeners grew almost silent, and 
sat as if spellboumd. He no longer played “ There 
grows a bonnie brier-bush in our kailyard,” but sang to 
them, in a quivering, and yet plaintive voice, the story 
of Ellen of Strathcoe, who was rowed away over the 
lake when the moon was shining and the wind blow- 
ing lightly, but who never reached the shore. And then 
the old man came nearer to his own time, and told them 
of the awful stories of second sight that he had heard 
when a boy, over among the Cowwal hills ; of warnings 
coming at the dead of the night ; of voices heard in 
churchyards ; of visions seen by persons in their own 
houses, as they sat alone in the evening. The girls 
listened partly t(\ him, and partly to the wind without. 
The great house seemed to be even more empty than 
usual ; and the creaking of a door or the shaking of a 
window^ould be heard along the corridors coming from 
distant rooms. Earlshope was a lonely place at that time 
of night, so far away from all houses, and so near to the 
wild moor. 

“ But there is no story about Earlshope,” said one of 
the girls. * 


3°6 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


She spoke in a quite timid voice, as if she were 
listening to the sounds without. 

“ Wass you never told, then o’ sa auld man that lived 
here by himsel’, and would ride about sa country at night 
and drink by himsel’ in such a fashion as no man leevin’ 
would pelieve ? ” 

They did not answer him : they only looked, their 
eyes grown apprehensive. 

“It wass an auld Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, 
and he wass a wild man for sa drink ; and no one in all 
sa countryside would go near him. Sa bairns would 
flee from him as he came riding down sa road, and he 
would ride at them, and frichten them, and gallop on wi’ 
shrieks o’ laughin’, just as if he wass sa teefle himsel’. 
And he would ride about sa country at nicht, and knock 
at folk’s doors or windows wi’ his stick, and cry in till 
them, and then ride on again, wud wi’ laughin’ and singin/ 
just as if he was possessed. And sare wass a girl in Air- 
lie^ bonnie young lassie she wass, as I hef peen told, and 
he did sweer on a Bible wis sa most dreadfu’ sweerin’ he 
would carry her some nicht to Earlshope, or else set sa 
house on fire over hersel’ and her ,f oik. And sa lassie, 
she was so frichtened she would never go outside sa 
house ; and it wass said she was to go to Greenock 
or Glasgow into service, if sare was service then, for it 
wass a long time ago.” 

The Pensioner here bethought him of his toddy, and 
turned to his glass. During that brief pause there was 
a dead silence, only some laurel bushes rustled outside 
in the wind. The Pensioner cleared his throat and re- 
sumed his tale : — 

“ And Lord Earlshope, as I hef peen told, did hear 
sat she would go away from Airlie, and he was in a great 
rage, and swore that he would burn sa whole place down, 
and her too, and all her folk. But one day it wafs known 
to him sat her parents would be over in Saltcoats ; and 
he had men sare, and sa men got hold of sa lassie’s folk, 
and clapped them into a big boat, and took sem out to 
sea. And sa lassie waited all sa afternoon, and say did 
not come home ; nor yet at nicht. and she was all by 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


307 

hersel , for she wass afraid to go out and speer at sa 
neighbors. And then, as I hef peen told, he did go to 
sa house at sa dead o’ nicht, and pulled sa lassie out, and 
took her on sa horse, and rode over wi’ her to Earlshope 
her screamin’, him laughin’ and sweerin,’ as was his or- 
dinar’. And so wild wass he wis sa firink sat he ordered 
all sa servants out o’ sa house, and say listened frae the 
outside to sa awful noises in sa rooms, him ragin’ and 
sweerin’ and laughin’ jist like sa teefle. And then, as I 
hef peen told, a licht was seen, and it grew, and flames 
was in all sa windows, sa was, and a roarin’ and a noise and 
a burnin’, and when the mornin’ wass come, Earlshope 
wass burned down to sa ground, and nothing could be 
seen o’ sa lassie or sa auld man either.” 

The Pensioner took another pull at the tumbler. It 
was getting more and more late. 

“ And this, as I hef peen told, is a new Earlshope ; 
but sa auld man hass never gone away from sa place. 
He is still about here in sa night-time ; I do not know 
he hass been seen, but many’s and many’s sa time he 
wass heard to laugh in among the trees in the park, 
and you will hear sometimes the sound of sa horse’s 
feet not far from sa house. Trop, trop ! — trop, trop ! — 
sat is it, licht, licht, and you will not know whesser it is 
close by or far away, only you will hear sa laughin 
close by, as if it was at your ear.” 

Suddenly, at this moment, a string of the Pensioner’s 
fiddle snapped with a loud bang, and there was a simul- 
taneous shriek from the women. In the strange pause 
that followed, when they all listened with a beating- 
heart, it seemed to them that at some distance outside 
there was a measured beat on the soft earth, exactly 
like the sound of a horse riding up to Earlshope. A 
minute or two more and the suspicion became a cer- 
tainty. 

“ Listen \ ” said one of the girls, instinctively seizing 
hold of her neighbor’s arm. The wind was still moan- 
ing through the firs, but in the intervals the footfalls of 
the horse became more and more distinct, and were 
obyiously drawing near to the house. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


3° 8 


“ Mercy on us ! ” exclaimed the Housekeeper, with 
a scared face. u Wha can it be at this time o’ nicht ? 

“ It is coming nearer,” said another. 

“ Jeannie! ” cried the third, in a frenzy of despera- 
tion, “ dinna haud me by the airm, a body canna 
hear ! ” 

The measured sounds drew nearer, until they ceased, 
apparently, at the very door. Then there was the sharp 
clink of the bell-handle on the stone, and far away 
in the hollow corridor of the kitchen a bell jingled 
hideously. The Housekeeper uttered a cry, and started 
to her feet. 

“ Gude forgi’e me, but there’s no a Bible near at 
hand ! ” she exclaimed, in an agony of trepidation. “ Mr. 
Lamont, Mr. Lamont, what is to be done ? This is 
fearfu’, this is awfu’ ! Jeannie, what for do ye no open 
the door ? ” 

“ Open the door ? ” said the girl, faintly, with her 
eyes staring out of her head. 

“ Ay, open the door ! ” said the Housekeeper, sav- 
agely. “ Isn’t it your business ? ” 

“ But, but, but — ” stammered the girl, with her teeth 
chattering, ‘ ; n — no to open the door to the deevil ! ” 

“I will open sa door ! ” said the Pensioner, proudly. 

When he rose and went into the dark hall the wo- 
men followed close at his heels, all clinging to each 
other. Another vigorous pull at the bell had nearly 
brought them to their knees ; but Neil Lamont, groping 
his way to the door, began to fumble about for the bolts, 
using much florid and unnecessary Gaelic all the while. 
At last the bolts were withdrawn, and the door opened. 
On the threshold stood the dusky figure of a man ; be- 
yond him the horse from which he had dismounted, and 
which he held by the bridle. The women shrank back 
in affright, one of them uttering a piercing scream. 
The Pensioner stood for a moment irresolute, and then 
he advanced a step, and said, with a fine assumption of 
courage, — 

(t Who sa teefle are you, and what for you will come 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


3°9 


to disturb a good and a godly house ? What is it sat 
you want ? ” 

“ Confound you, send somebody to take my horse ! ” 
was the sharp reply he met with from the mysterious 
stranger. “ What’s the matter ? Is there no one about 
the place but a pack of frightened women ? ” 

“ It is his Lordship himsel’ ! ” cried Neil. “ Eh, 
wha did expect to see you sa nicht ? ” 

“ Come and take my horse, you fool ! ” 

“ Sat I will ; but it is no use calling names,” an- 
swered Neil, while the women began to breathe. 

The Pensioner got the keys of the stable, and led 
off the horse, while Lord Earlshope entered the hall, 
called for lights, and began to rub the rain out of his 
eyes and hair. The whole house was presently in a 
scurry to have his Lordship’s wants attended to ; but 
there was considerable delay, for none of the women 
would go singly on the shortest errand. When, after 
some time, Neil returned from feeding and grooming 
the horse in a rough-and-ready fashion, he infused some 
little courage into the household ; and at length the 
turmoil caused by the unexpected arrival subsided some- 
what. Finally, Lord Earlshope called the Housekeeper 
into his study, and said to her, — 

“ I shall leave early to-morrow morning. There 
have been no visitors at Earlshope recently ? ” 

“ No, your Lordship.” 

“ It is very likely that a woman, a Mrs. Smith Sey- 
mour she calls herself, will come here to-morrow and ask 
to be shown over the place. You will on no account al- 
low her to come into the house, you understand ? ” 

But wha can come here the morn ? ” said the House- 
keeper; “it’s the Sabbath.” 

“ This person may drive here. In any case, you will 
allow no stranger to come into the place.” 

“ I wish the men-folks were coming back afore 
Monday,” said the Housekeeper, who was still a trifle 
perturbed by the Pensioner’s stories. 

“Cannot three. of you keep one woman from coming 


3 10 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


into the house ? You can lock the doors, you need not 
even talk to her.” 

Having received her instructions, the Housekeeper 
left ; and Lord Earlshope went to a writing-desk, and 
addressed an envelope to a firm of solicitors in London. 
The words he then wrote and enclosed in the envelope 
were merely these : “ Reserve payment Jo Mrs. Smith 
Seymour, if demanded. The stipulations have not been 
observed. I will call on you in a few days. — Earlshope ” . 

It was close on midnight when he entered the house, 
and shortly after daybreak next morning he had again 
set out, telling no one of his intentions, The servants, 
accustomed to his abrupt comings and goings, were not 
surprised ; but none of them forgot the manner in which 
Lord Earlshope had ridden up at midnight to the house 
in the fashion of his notorious ancestor. As for the 
Housekeeper, she was more consequential than ever, hav 
ing been intrusted with a secret. 


CHAPTER XLVI. 

THE MINISTER’S -PUBLISHER. 

On the morning of the day on which Lord Earls- 
hope paid his sudden visit to Airlie, the Minister came 
down into the parlor of the Manse, where Leezibeth 
was placing the breakfast things. 

“ Miss Cassilis is coming home to-day,” he said. 

“ Atweel, I’m glad to hear’t,” said Leezibeth, utter- 
ing that peculiar sigh of resignation with which most 
elderly Scotchwomen receive good news. 

The boys were all rejoiced to hear that Coquette was 
coming, for they had not forgotten the presents she had 
promised them, and they knew from of old that she was 
as little likely to forget. This being Saturday, and a wet 
Saturday, too, they unamimously resolved to stay at 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 




3ii 


home, and play at “ bools ” in the lobby until Coquette 
should arrive from Glasgow. But the restraint of this 
form of amusement became insufferable. Leezibeth’s 
remonstrances about their noise, the Minister being 
then engaged with his sermon, at last drove them out 
of the house and up into the hay-loft, where they had 
unlimited freedom of action and voice. 

Leezibeth delivered to Andrew the necessary orders 
about the dog-cart in a somewhat defiant way, she knew 
he would not regard very favorably the return of the' 
young lady. But Andrew kept most of his grumbling 
to himself, and Leezibeth only overheard the single 
word “ Jezebel.” 

“Jezebel!” she cried, in a sudden flame of anger. 

“ Wha is Jezebel? Better Jezebel than Shimei the 
Benjamite, that will be kenned forever only by his ill-tem- 
per and his ill-tongue.” 

Leezibeth stood there, as if daring him to say another 
word. Andrew was a prudent man. He began to tie 
his shoe, and as he stooped he only muttered, — 

“ Hm ! If Shimei had had a woman’s tongue, David 
micht hae suffered waur. And it’s an ill time come to 
us if we are a’ to bend the knee to this foreign woman, 
that can scarcely be spoken o’ withoot offence, Better 
for us a’ if the Minister’s brither had been even like 
Coniah, the son of Jehoiakim. As it was said o’ him, 

‘ I will cast thee out, and thy mother that bare thee, 
into another country, where ye were not born, and there 
shall ye die. But to the land whereunto they desire to 
return, thither shall they not return.’ ” 

“ Od, I wish Maister Tammas could hear ye ! ” said 
Leezibeth, in desperation at being' out-talked. 

“ Ay, ay, Maister Tammas, it was an ill day for him 
that she came to the Manse. Mark my words, the Min- 
ister’ll repent him o’t when he sees his auldest son a 
wreck and a ruin, and a byword i’ the countryside. 
He’ll turn aside from his ain folk, Leezibeth, and marry 
ain o’ the daughters o’ Heth.” 

“What for no?” cried Leezibeth. “Where could 


3 12 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


he wale* out a bonnier lass ? I wish ye’d stopyer yaum- 
rnering^: and look out some plaids and rugs for the dog- 
cairt, for there’s wind and rain enough to last us for the 
rest o’ the year.” 

A very surly man was Andrew Bogue when he set 
out at mid-day to drive over to the station. He was 
enveloped so that only the tip of his nose could be seen, 
for the wind was dashing heavy showers over the moor, 
and the sea was white with the breaking of the great 
waves. It was not a day to improve a man’s temper ; 
and when, at last, Coquette arrived, Andrew was not 
the most pleasant person to bid her welcome. 

Coquette was alone. Sir Peter wished to accompany 
her on the brief railway journey ; but she would not 
hear of it, as she knew that the dog-cart would await her 
arrival. Coquette came out into the little station. She 
asked Andrew to get her luggage; and while he was 
gone she turned and looked up to the high country beyond 
which Airlie lay. How dismal it appeared ! The wind 
was moving heavy masses of dull gray cloud across the 
sky, and between her and the gloomy landscape hov- 
ered the mist of the rain, underneath which the trees 
drooped and the roads ran red. She could not see the 
sea ; but the tumbling plain of sombre waves would not 
have brightened the scene much. And so at last she 
took her seat on the dog-cart, and hid herself in thick 
shawls and rugs, and so was driven away through the 
dripping and desolate country. It was so different from 
her first coming thither ! 

“They are all well at Airlie ? ” she said. 

“ Weel aneuch,” said Andrew ; and that was all the 
conversation which passed between them on the journey. 

They drew near Earlshope, and Coquette saw the 
entrance to the park, and the great trees standing deso- 
lately in the wet. There was the strip of fir-wood, too, 
near which she had parted with Lord Earlshope but a 
short time ago, on that pleasant summer morning. Th«* 
place looked familiar, and yef unfamiliar. The firs 

* Wale , to choose — German, wahlen. 

| Yawner ^ to whine — German , jammern. 


A DAUGHTER OF HR TH. 


313 

were almost black under the heavy rain-clouds, and 
there was no living creature abroad to temper the loneli- 
ness and desolation of the moor which stretched beyond. 
It seemed to Coquette that she was now coming back 
to a prison, in which she must spend the rest of her 
life. Hitherto all had been uncertainty as to her future, 
and she had surrendered herself to the new and sweet 
experiences of the moment with scarcely a thought. 
But now all the past had been shut up as if it were a 
sealed book, ancf there remained to her — -what ? Co- 
quette began to think that she .had seen the best of life, 
and that she would soon feel old. 

She went into the Manse. It did not look a cheer- 
ful place just then. Outside, rain and cold ; inside, the 
wind had blown the smoke down one of the chimneys, 
and the atmosphere of the house was a dull blue. But 
Leezibeth came running to meet her, and overwhelmed 
her with fussy kindness about her wet clothes, and hur- 
ried her upstairs, and provided her with warm slippers, 
and what not, until Coquette, who had abandoned her- 
self into her hands, became aware that she was ungrate- 
fully silent about those little attentions. 

“ You are very kind to me, Leesibess,” she said. 

“ 'Deed no, Pm fair delighted to see ye back, miss,” 
said Leezibeth, “ for the Manse has been like a kirkyaird 
since the day ye left it. The Minister has been shut up 
in the study frae mornin’ till nicht, the laddies at the 
schule ; and that catankerous auld man o’ mine grumbl- 
ing until a body’s life was like to be worried out. And 
I’m thinking Glasgow doesna agree wi’ ye, miss. Ye 
are looking a wee bit worn and pale ; but running about 
the moor will soon set ye up again.” 

“ It is not pleasant to go on the moor now,” said 
Coquette, with a little shrug, as she looked out of the 
window on the desolate prospect. 

“ But it canna be aye rainin’, though it seems to try 
sometimes,” said Leezibeth. “ I wish it had been or- 
dained that we should get nae mair weet than the far- 
mers want ; it is just a wastry o’ the elements to hae 
rain pourin’ down like that.” 


3*4 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


Then Coquette began to inquire why her uncle had 
not come to see her ; and Leezibeth explained that the 
Minister was fairly buried alive in his books ever since 
he had begun seriously to work at his Concordance. So 
she ran down-stairs, and went into the study, and went 
up to him and dutifully kissed him. 

The Minister looked up with dazed eyes, and a 
pleased look came into the sad gray face. 

“ You have come back, my girl ? And you are well ? 
And you have enjoyed yourself in Glasgow ? ” 

He failed to notice the somewhat tired air that had 
not escaped Leezibeth’s keen eyes. 

“ You have been hard at work, uncle, I can see ; and 
I am come back to interrupt it.” 

“ Why ? ” said the Minister, in some alarm. 

“ Because I cannot let you kill yourself with your 
books. When the weather does become fine again, 
you will go out with me, and leave your books alone for 
a time.’’ 

“ I cannot do that,” he said, looking at the sheets be- 
fore him. “ I have purposed having this work finished 
by the end o’ the year, so that, if I am spared and in 
health, I might even undertake another with the incom- 
ing o’ the new year. But sometimes I fear my labor 
will be thrown away. I am not familiar wi’ the book- 
sellers and such persons as undertake to bring out new 
works. The expense of it would be far too great for my 
own means, and yet I do not know howto recommend it 
to the notice of those whose business it is to embark 
money in such enterprises. I do not desire any profit or 
proceeds from the sale of the work, but I am not suffi- 
ciently acquainted with such things to know whether 
that will be an inducement. The cost of bringing out 
the book must be great.; Mr. Gillespie, the schoolmaster, 
did even mention so large a sum as one hundred pounds, 
but I am afraid not with sufficient caution or knowl- 
edge.” 

Coquette knelt down beside the old man, and took 
his hand in both of hers. 


A DALGHTER OF EtETH. 


3*5 


“ Uncle,” she said, “ I am going to ask you for a 
great favor.” 

“ And what is it ? ” 

“ No, you must promise first.” 

“ It is impossible, it is contrary to the teaching of 
Scripture to promise what it may be impossible to per- 
form,” said the Minister, who was perhaps vaguely in- 
fluenced by the story of the daughter of Herodias. 

“ Ah, well, it does not matter. Uncle, I want you 
to let me be your publisher.” , 

“ What do you mean, Catherine#? ” 

“ Let me publish your book for you. You know, 
my papa did leave me some money ; it is useless to me ; 
I do nothing with it ; it becomes more and more every 
year, and does nothing for anybody. This would be an 
amusement for me. I will take your book, uncle ; and 
you shall have no more of bother with it, and I will get 
it printed, and my Cousin Tom, he will send me word 
how the people do buy it in Glasgow.” 

“ But — but — but — ” stammered the Minister, who 
could scarcely understand at first this astounding pro- 
posal, “ my child, this generosity you propose might 
entail serious loss, which I should feel more than if it 
were my own. It is a grave matter, this publishing of a 
book ; it is one that young people cannot understand, and 
it is not lightly to be undertaken. We will put 

aside this offer of yours, Catherine ” 

“No, uncle, you must not,” she said gently, as she 
rose and put her hand on his shoulder. And then she 
drooped her head somewhat, as if in shame, and said to 
him in a low voice, quite close to his ear, “ If my mamma 
were here, she would do it for you, uncle, and so you 
must let me.” 

And then she kissed him again, and went away to 
call the boys, who were rather anxiously awaiting that 
summons. They were taken up to her sitting-room, 
and thither also came Leezibeth, partly to preserve order, 
and partly to open one of Coquette’s boxes, which was 
placed on a side-table. Coquette, by this time, had 
plucked up her spirits a little bit. The fire was burning 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


316 

more brightly in the room, and Leezibeth had prepared 
some tea for her. And so, when this box was finally 
opened, she proceeded to display its. contents in the 
fashion of a small show-woman, delivering a grave 
lecture to the circle of boys, who looked on as hungry- 
eyed as hawks. That decorum did not last long. In a 
very little while there was a turmoil in the room, and 
boyish shrieks of laughter over Coquette’s iionical jokes 
went pealing all over the house. For she had brought 
this for that cousin, and that for the other one ; and 
there was a great deal of blushing, and of confused 
thanks, and of outrageous merriment over the embarrass- 
ment of the others. Coquette seemed to have purchased 
an inexhaustible store of presents ; and what astonished 
them more than all was the exceeding appropriateness 
and exceptional value of those gifts. 

“ Look here, Coquette,” said Dugald, “ wha telled ye 
I lost that knife wi’ the corkscrew and the gimlet, and 
the file in it, for this ane is jist the same ? ” 

“ Look here, Dugald,” remarked the young lady, 
standing before him. “Will you please to tell me how 
you addressed me just now?” 

“ Oh,” said Dugald, boldly, “ the Whaup never 
called ye anything else, and ye seemed well enough 
pleased.” 

Here there was a good deal of laughter at Coquette’s 
expense, for these young gentlemen had formed their 
own notion of the. relation between their brother and 
Coquette. 

“Then,” she said, “when you are as tall as the 
Whaup, and as respectful to me as he is, you may call 
me Coquette ; but not till then, Master Dugald.” 

In the midst of all this confusion and noise a sudden 
lull occurred. Coquette turned and saw the tall, spare 
figure of her uncle at the half-opened door, where he 
had been for some time an unperceived and amused- 
spectator of the proceedings. One or two of the boys 
had caught sight of him, and had instantly curbed their 
wild merriment. But even although this was Saturday,, 
it was clear the Minister was not in an impatient mood 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


3 1 7 

with their uproar. On the contrary, he walked into the 
room and over to Coquette, and put his hand affection- 
ately on her head. 

“ You are a very good girl, Catherine,” he said. 

The boys looked on this demonstration of kindness 
with the utmost surprise. Seldom, indeed, had they seen 
their father forget that rigor of demeanor which the 
people in many parts of Scotland retain as the legacy of 
Puritanical reticence in all matters of the feelings and 
emotions. And then the compliment he paid to her ! 

“ I hope you are not being troubled by these unruly 
boys, who have much to learn in manners,” said the 
Minister, with a good-natured gravity. “ But Leezibeth 
must see to that ; and so, since you are come home, 
Catherine, I begin to think I should like to hear the 
sound of music again. I think the Manse has not been 
quite so cheerful since you left, somehow ; and I have 
missed you much in the evenings. As for music, I have 
had occasion lately to notice how much King David 
was in the habit of speaking about music, and about 
musical instruments, and the singing of the voice. Per 
haps we in this country have an unwarrantable prejudice 
against music, an exercise that we know the chosen peo- 
ple of the Lord prized highly.” 

It was now Leezibeth’s turn to be astonished. To 
hear the Minister ask for music on a Saturday, the day 
of his studying the sermon ; and to hear him disagree 
with the estimation in which that godless pastime was 
held by all decent, sober-minded, responsible folk, were 
matters for deep reflection to her, and not a little alarm 
and pain. Yet in her secret heart she was not sorry 
that Coquette sat down to the piano. Had she dared, 
she would have asked her to sing one of the old Scotch 
songs that had first drawn her towards the young 
French girl. 

But Coquette, also remembering that it was Saturday, 
began to play “ Drumclog,” and the beating of the wind 
and rain without was soon lost in the solemn and stately 
harmonies of that fine old air. And then, as in days 
gone by, she played it sharply and triumphantly, and a 


3 1 8 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


thrill went through the Minister’s heart. He drew his 
chair nearer to the piano, and heard the close of the 
brief performance with a sigh. 

“ Catherine,” he said, rather absently, “ was there 
not a song you used to sing about returning to your 
home after being away from it for a time ? It was a 
French song, I think ; and yet the music of it seemed 
to be praiseworthy.” 

“I do know that song,” said Coquette, in a low voice. 
“ But — but — I cannot sing it any more.” 

The Minister did not notice the pain that was visible 
on her face. 

“Yet perhaps you remember the music sufficiently 
to play it on the instrument without the help of the 
voice,” said the gray-haired old man, apparently forget- 
ting altogether that Leezibeth and the boys were in the 
room. 

Coquette began to play the air. It was the song 
that told of the happy return to France after three long 
years of absence. She had returned to her home, it is 
true, leaving behind her many wild and sad and beauti- 
ful memories ; and now that she was back to Airlie, it 
seemed as though the desolate wind and the rain outside 
were but typical of the life that awaited her there. 
Coquette played the air as if she were in a dream ; and, 
at last, her cousin Dugald, standing at the end of the 
piano, was surprised to see her face get more and more 
bent down, and her fingering of the keys more and more 
uncertain. 

“ What for are ye greetin’ ? ’’ he said to her, gently ; 
but Coquette could make no answer. 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


319 


CHAPTER XLVII. 


coquette’s song. 


For a long period Coquette’s life at Airlie was so un- 
eventful that it may be passed over with the briefest no- 
tice. It seemed to her that she had passed through 
that season of youth and springtime when romance and 
the wild joys of anticipation ought to color for a brief 
time the atmosphere around a human life as if with 
rainbows. That was all over, if, indeed, it had ever oc- 
curred to her. There was now but the sad, gray monot- 
ony, the passing weeks and months, in this remote moor- 
land place, where the people seemed hard, unimpression- 
able, unfriendly. She began to acquire notions of duty. 
She began to devise charitable occupations for herself. 
She even began tc/ study various things which could 
never by any chance be of use to her. And she grew 
almost to love the slow, melancholy droning by the old 
Scotch folk of those desolating passages in the Prophets 
which told of woe and wrath and the swift end of things, 
or which, still more appropriately, dealt with the vanity 
of life and. the shortness of men’s days. 

The Whaup began to talk of marriage ; she put it far- 
ther and farther off. He seldom indeed came to Airlie ; 
for Dr. Menzies had been better than his promise, ac- 
cepted him as junior partner, and was gradually intrust- 
ing a good deal of the business to his care. The Whaup’s 
studies were far from complete ; so that he had plenty to 
occupy himself, with, and his visits to Airlie were few 
and brief. On one of these visits he said to his 
cousin, — 

“Coquette, you are growing very like a Scotch 

• 1 H 


girl.” 


“ Why ? ” she asked. 

“Tn manner I mean, not in appearance. You are 



320 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Til 


not as demonstrative as you used to be. You appear 
more settled, prosaic, matter-of-fact. You have lost all 
youf old childish caprices, and you no longer appear to 
be so pleased with every little thing that happens. You 
are much graver than you used to be.” 

“ Do you think so ? ” she said, absently. 

“ But when we are married I mean to take you away 
from this slow place, and introduce you to lots of pleas- i 
ant people, and brighten you up into the old Coquette.” 

“ I am very content to be here,” she said, quietly. 

“Content! Is that all you ask for? Content! I 
suppose a nun is content with a stone cell six feet square. 
But you were not intended to be content ; you must be 
delighted and you shall be delighted. Coquette, you 
never laugh now.” 

“ And you,” she said, “ yon are grown much serious 
too.” 

“ Oh, well,” he said, “ I have such a deal to think 
about. One has to drop robbing people’s gardens some 
day or other.” 

“ I have some things to think about also,” she said, 

“ not always to make me laugh.” 

“ What troubles you then Coquette ? ” he asked gen- : 
tly. 

“ Oh; I cannot be asked questions, and questions al- ; 
ways,” she said, with a trace of fretful impatience, which 
was a startling surprise to him. “ I have much to do 
in the village with the children ; and the parents, they do 
seem afraid of me.” 

The Whaup regarded her silently, with rather a 
pained look in his face ;and then she, looking up, seemed 
to become aware that she had spoken harshly. She & 
put her hand on his hand, and said, — 

“ You must not be angry with me Tom. I do often 1 
find myself getting vexed, I do not know why; and j 
I ask myself, if I do stay long enough at Ai'rlie, whether 
I shall become like Leezibeth and her husband.” 

“You shall not' stay long enough to try,” said the • 
Whaup promptly. 

Then he went away up to Glasgow, determined to 

; i 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


321 


work d ly and night to achieve this fair prospect. Some- 
times he thought, when he heard his fellow-students tell 
of their gay adventures with their sweethearts, that his 
sweetheart, in bidding him good-by, had never given 
him one kiss. And each time that he went down to 
Airlie, Coquette seemed to him to be growing more and 
more like the beautiful and sad Madonnas of early Ital- 
ian art, and he scarce dared to think of kissing her. 

So the days went by, and the slow, humdrum life of 
Airlie crept through the seasons, bringing the people a 
little nearer to the churchyard up on the moor that had 
received their fathers and their forefathers. The Min- 
ister worked away with a wistful earnestness at his Con- 
cordance of the Psalms , and had the pride of a young 
author in thinking of its becoming a real, bound book 
with the opening of the new year. Coquette went sys- 
tematically and gravely about her charitable works in 
the village, and took no notice of the ill-favor with which 
her efforts were regarded. All that summer and winter 
Earlshope remained empty. 

One evening, in the beginning of the new year, Mr. 
Gillespie, the schoolmaster, came up to the Manse, and 
was admitted into the study, where Coquette and her 
uncle sat together, busy with an array of proof-sheets. 
The Schoolmaster had a communication to make. Mr. 
Cassilis, enjoying the strange excitement and responsibi- 
lity of correcting the sheets of a work which would 
afterwards bear his name, was forced to beg the School- 
master to be brief ; and he, thus goaded, informed them, 
after a short preamble, that Earlshope was to be sold. 

The Schoolmaster was pleased with the surprise 
which his news produced. Indeed, he had come resolved 
to watch the effect of these tidings upon the Minister’s 
niece, so that he might satisfy his mind of her being in 
secret collusion with the young lord of Earlshope ; and 
he now glared at her through his gold spectacles. She 
had started on hearing the intelligence, so that she was 
evidently unacquainted with it ; and yet she showed no 
symptoms of regret over an event which clearly beto- 


-22 A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 

kened Lord Earlshope’s final withdrawal from the 
country. 

“ A strange, even an unaccountable thing, it may be 
termed,” observed the Schoolmaster, “ inasmuch as his 
Lordship was no spendthrift, and had more money than 
could satisfy all his wants, or necessities, as one might 
say. Yet he has aye been a singular young man, which 
may have been owing, or caused by, certain circum- 
stances or relationships of which you have doubtless 
heard, Mr. Cassilis.” 

“ I have heard too much of the vain talking of the 
neighborhood about his Lordship and his affairs,” said 
the Minister, impatiently turning to his proofs. 

“ I will venture to say, Mr. Cassilis,” remarked the 
Schoolmaster, who was somewhat nettled, “ that it is no 
vain talking, as no one has been heard to deny that he is 
a married man.” 

“ Dear me ! ” said the minister, looking up. “ Of what 
concern is if to either you or me, Mr. Gillespie, whether 
he is a married man or not ? ” 

The Schoolmaster was rather stunned. He looked 
at Coquette. She sat apparently unimpressionable and 
still. He heaved a sigh and shook his head, and then 
he rose. 

“ It is the duty o’ a Christian, which I humbly hope 
that I am, sir, no’ to think ill of his neighbors ; but I 
confess, Mr. Cassilis, ye go forward a length in that 
airt, or direction, I might term it rather, which is sur- 
prising.” 

The Minister rose also. 

“• Let me see you through the passage, Mr, Gillespie, 
which is dark at these times. I do not claim for myself, 
however, any especial charity in this matte ; for I would 
observe that it is not always to a man’s disfavor to be- 
lieve him married.” 

As the passage was in reality dark, the Schoolmaster 
could not tell whether there was in the Minister’s eye a 
certain humorous twinkle which he had sometimes ob- 
served there, and which, to tell the truth, he did not 
particularly like, for it generally accompanied a severe 


A DAUGHTER OF BETH. 


3 2 3 


rebuke. However, the Schoolmaster had done his duty. 
The Minister was warned ; and if any of his household 
were led astray, the village of Airlie could wash its 
hands of the matter. 

At last there came people to make Earlshope ready 
for the auctioneer’s hammer ; and then there was a great 
sale, and the big house was gutted and shut up. But 
neither it nor the estate was sold, though strangers 
came from time to time to lpok at both. 

Once more the quiet moorland neighborhood re- 
turned to its quiet ways ; and Coquette went the round 
of her simple duties, lessening day by day the vague 
prejudice which had somehow been stirred up against 
her by the rumor, which had found its way down to 
Airlie, that Lord Earlshope was married. It was with 
no such intentions, certainly, that she labored. It was 
enough if the days passed, and if the*Whaup were con- 
tent to cease writing for a definite answer about that 
marriage which was yet far away in the future. Leezi- 
beth. looked on this new phase of the girl’s character 
with an esteem and approval tempered by something 
like awe. She could not tell what had taken away from 
her all the old gayety and wilfulness and carelessness. 
Strangely enough, too, Leezibeth was less her confidante 
now ; and on the few occasions that Lady Drum came 
over to Airlie the old lady was surprised to find Coquette 
grown almost distant and reserved in manner. Indeed, 
the girl was as much alone there as if she had been 
afloat on a raft at sea. All hope of change, of excite- 
ment, of pleasure, seemed to have left her. She seldom 
opened the piano ; and, when she did, “ Drumclog” was 
no longer a martial air, but a plaintive wail of grief. 

Perhaps, of all the people around her, the one that 
noticed most of her low spirits was the Whaup’s young 
brother Dugald, of whom she had made a sort of pet. 
Very often she took him with her on her missions into 
the village, or her walks into the country round. And 
one day, as they were sitting on the moor, she said to 
him, — 


3 2 4 


A daughter of ite th. 


“ I suppose you never heard of an old German song 
that is very strange and sad ? I wonder if I can re- 
member the words and repeat them to you. They are 
something like this, — 

* Three horsemen rode out to the gate of the town : Good-bye ! 

Fine Sweetheart, she looked from her window down ; Good-bye ! 
And if ill fate such grief must bring,. 

Then reach me hither your golden ring ! 

Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Good-bye I 
Ah, parting wounds so bitterly ! 

‘ And it is Death that parts us so t Good-bye ! 

Many a rose-red maiden must go : Good-bye ! 

He sunders many a man from wife : 

They knew how happy a thing was life. 

Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 

Ah, parting wounds so bitterly! 

‘ He steals the infant out of its bed : Good-bye ! 

And when shall I see my nut-brown maid ? Good-bye! 

It is not to-morrow ; ah, were it to-day ! 

There are two that I know that would be gay 1 
Good-bye ! Good-bye ! Good-bye ! 

Ah, parting wounds so bitterly ! ’ ” 


“ What does it mean ? ” asked the boy. 

“ I think it means/’ sd!d Coquette, looking away over 
the moor, “ that everybody in the world is miserable.” 

“ And are you miserable, too ? ” he asked. 

“ Not more than others, I suppose,” said Coquette. 


CHAPTER XLVIII. 

COQUETTE FORSAKES HER FRIENDS. 

The dull gray atmosphere that thus hung over Co- 
quette’s life was about to be pierced by a lightning-flash. 

Two years had passed away in a quiet, monotonous 
fashion, and very little had happened during that time to 
the people about Airlie. The Minister, it is true, had 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


325 


published his Concordance of the Psalms ; and not only 
had he received various friendly and congratulatory letters 
about it from clergymen standing high in the estimation 
of the world, but notice had been taken of the work in 
the public prints, ancF that of a nature to fill the old man’s 
heart with secret joy. Coquette cut out those paragraphs 
which were laudatory (suppressing ruthlessly those which 
were not), and placed them in a book. Indeed, she man- 
aged the whole business ; and, especially in the monetary 
portion of it, insisted on keeping her negotiations with 
the publishers a profound secret 

“ It is something for me to do, uncle,” she said. 

“ And you have done it very well, Catherine,” said 
the Minister. “ I am fair surprised to see what a 
goodly volume it has turned out ; the smooth paper, the 
clear printing; it is altogether what I would call a pre- 
sentable book.” 

The Minister would have been less surprised had he 
known the reckless fashion in which Coquette had given 
instructions to the publishers, and the amount of money 
she subsequently and surreptitiously and cheerfully paid. 

“ There are newspapers,” said the Minister, ruefully, 
“which they tell me deal in flight and profane fashion 
wi’ religious matters. I hope the editors will read my 
Concordance carefully before writing of it in their jour- 
nals.” 

“ I do not think it is the editor who writes about 
books,” remarked Coquette. “An editor of a Nantes 
newspaper did use to come to our house, and I remember 
his saying to my papa that he gave books to his writers 
who could do nothing else ; so you must not be surprised 
if they do make mistakes. As for him, uncle, I an^sure 
he did not know who wrote the Psalms.” 

“ Very likely, very likely,” said the Minister. “ But 
the editors of our newspapers are a different class of men, 
for they write for a religious nation, and must be ac- 
quainted wi’ such things. The Schoolmaster thinks I 
ought to write to the editors, and beg them to read the 
books wi’ care.” 

“ I wouldn’t do that, uncle, if I were you,” said Co- 


3 2 6 


A DA UGH TER OF BET//. 


quette ; and, somehow or other, the Minister had of late 
got into such a habit of consulting and obeying Coquette 
that her simple expression of opinion sufficed, and he did 
not write to any editor, 

At times during that long period, but not often, the 
Whaup came down to Airlie, and stayed from the Satur- 
day to the Monday morning. The anxious and troubled 
Way in which Coquette put aside any reference to their 
future marriage struck him painfully ; but fon the present 
he was content to be almost silent. There was no use, 
he reflected, in talking about this matter until he could 
definitely say to her, “ Come, and be my wife.” He had 
no right to press her to give any more definite promise 
than she had already given, when he himself was uncertain 
as to time. But, even now, he saw at no great dis- 
ance ahead the fortunate moment when he could formally 
claim Coquette as his bride. His place in the business 
of Dr. Menzies had been secured to him, and his term 
of public study was coming to an end. Every day that 
he rose he knew himself a day nearer to the time when 
he should go down to Airlie and carry off with him Co- 
quette to be the wonder of all Jiis friends in Glasgow. 

At times, as he looked at Coquette, he felt rather 
anxious, and wished that the days could pass more 
quickly. 

“ I am afraid the dulness of this place is weighing 
very heavily on you, Coquette,” he said to her one Satur- 
day afternoon that he had gone down. 

“ You do say that often to me,” she said, “and I find 
you looking at me as if you were a doctor. Yet I am 
not ill. It is true, I think that I am becoming Scotch, 
as you said once long ago ; and all your Scotch people at 
Airlie seem to me sad and resigned in their faces. That 
is no harm, is it ? ” 

“ But why should you be sad and resigned ? ” 

“ I do catch it as an infection from the others,” she 
said, with a smile. 

Yet he was not satisfied, and he went back to Glasgow 
more impatient than ever. 

For he said to himself, “once I can go and ask her 


A DAUGHTER OP HETH. 


327 


to fulfil her promise, there will be a chance of breaking 
this depressing calm that has settled on her. I will take 
her away from Airlie. I will get three months’ holiday, 
and take her down to see the Loire, and than back through 
France to Marseilles, and then on to Italy, and then back 
through Switzerland. And only to think of Coquette 
being always with me, and my having to order breakfast 
for her, and see that the wine is always quite sound and 
good for her, and see that she is wrapped up against the 
coj^l, and to listen always to her sweet voice, and the 
broken English, and the little perplexed stammer now 
and again, isn’t that something to work for ! ” 

So the time went by, and Coquette heard nothing of 
Lord Earlshope, not even the mention of his name. But 
one dull morning in March she was walking by herself 
over the moor, and suddenly she heard on the gravel of 
the path in front of her the sound of a quick footstep that 
she knew. Her heart ceased to beat, and for a second 
she felt faint and giddy. Then, without ever lifting her 
head, she endeavored to turn aside and avoid him. 

“ Won’t you even speak to me, Coquette ? ” 

The sound of his voice made this blood spring hotly 
to her face again, and recalled the wild beating of her 
heart ; but still she stood immovable. And then she said, 
in a low voice, — 

“ Yes, I will speak to you if you wish.” 

He came nearer to her, his own face quite pale, and 
said, — 

“ I am glad you have nearly forgotten me, Coquette ; 

I came to see. I heard that you looked very sad, and 
went about alone much, and were pale ; but I wonld 
rather hear you tell me, Coquette, that it is all a mistake.” 

“ I have not forgotten anything,” said Coquette. 

“ Nothing?” 

“ Nothing at all.” 

“ Coquette,” he cried, coming quite close to her.*' 
me this, once for all, have you forgotten nothi v 
have forgotten nothing ? do you love me as if 
just parted yesterday ? has all this time done nc 
either of us ? ” 


3?8 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


She looked around, wildly, as if seeking some means 
of escape ; and then, with a sort of shudder, she found 
his arms around her as in the olden time, and she was 
saying, almost incoherently, — 

“ Oh, my darlingy my darling, I love you more than 
ever, night and day I have never ceased to think of you, 
and now — and now my only wish is to die, here, with 
your arms around me ! ” 

“ Listen, Coquette, listen ! ” he said. “ Do you know 
what I have done ? A ship passes here in the morning*for 
America ; I have taken two berths in it, for you and for 
me ; to morrow we shall be sailing away to a new world,' 
and leaving all those troubles behind us. Do you hear 
me ; Coquette ? ” 

The girl shuddered violently ; her face was hid. 

“ You remember that woman,” he said, hurriedly. 
“ Nothing has been heard of her for two years. I have 
sought everywhere for her. She must be dead, and so, 
Coquette, you know, we shall be married when we get out 
there ; and perhaps in after years we shall come back to 
Airlie. But now, Coquette, this is what ‘you must do. 
The Caroline will wait for you off Saltcoats to-night ; you 
must come down by yourself, and I will tell you how to 
get the pinnace to come out. And then we are to meet 
the ship, darling ; and to-morrow yon will have turned 
your face to a new world, and will soon forget this old 
one, that was so cruel to you. What do you say, 
Coquette ? ” 

“ Oh, I cannot ! ” murmured the girl. “ What will 
become of my uncle ? ” 

“ Your uncle is an old man. He would have been 
as lonely if you had never come to Airlie, Coquette ; and 
we may come back to see him.” 

She looked up now, with a white face, into his eyes, 
'd said slowly, — 

You know that if we go away to-night I shall 
e him again, nor any one of my friends.” 
ither shrank from that earnest look; but he 
eyes turned, “ What are friends to you, Co- 
They cannot make you happy.” 


/ 

\ - , 

^ DA UGII TER OF HE TH 329 

A little while after that Coquette was on her way 
back to the Manse, alone. She had promised to go 
down to Saltcoats that night, and she had sealed her sin 
with a kiss. 

She scarcely knew what she had done ; and yet 
there was a dreadful consciousness of some impending 
evil pressing down on her heart. Her eyes were fixed 
on the ground as she went along ; and yet it seemed to 
her that she knew the dark clouds were glowing with a 
fiery crimson, and that there was a light as of sunset 
gleaming over the moor. Then, so still it was ! She 
grew afraid that in this fearful silence she should hear a 
voice speaking to her from the sky that appeared to be 
close over her head. 

Guilty and trembling she drew near to the Manse; 
and seeing the Minister coming out of the gate, she 
managed to avoid him, and stole like a culprit up to her 
own room. The first thing that met her eyes was a locket 
containing a portrait^ her mother. She took it up, 
and placed it in a drawer along with the crucifix and 
some religious books to which Leezibeth had objected. 
She put it beside them reverently and sadly, as though 
she knew she never dared touch them any more. And 
then she sat down, and buried her face in her hands, 
and wept bitterly. 

She was unusually and tenderly attentive to her 
uncleat dinnertime; and in answer to his inquiries why 
she scarcely ate anything, she said that she had taken 
her accustomed biscuit and glass of port wine, which 
Dr. Menzies had recommended, later than usual. The 
answer did not quite satisfy the Minister. 

“ We must have Lady Drum to take ye away for a 
change/’ he said, “ some o’ these days.” 

When she had brought her uncle the silk hand- 
kerchief with which he generally covered his face in set- 
tling down to his after-dinner nap, Coquette went up- 
stairs, and put a few odd things into a small reticule. 
Then she went downstairs again, and waited patiently 
.until tea was over and the boys sent off to prepare their 
lessons for next day. 


33 o A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL \ 

Then Coquette, having put on her shawl and hat, 
stole out of the house, and through the small garden. 
She looked neither to the right nor to the left. Of all 
the troubles she had experienced in life, the bitterest 
was nothing in comparison to the ghastly sense of guilt 
that now crushed her down. She knew that in leaving 
the Manse she was leaving behind her all the sweet 
consciousness of rectitude, the purity and innocence 
which had enabled her to meet trials with a courageous 
heart. She was leaving behind her the treasure of a 
stainless name, the crown of womanhood. She was 
leaving behind her her friends/ -who would have to share 
her shame and face on her behalf the bitter tongues of 
the’ world. She was leaving behind her even the 
pleasant memories of her mother, for Heaven itself 
would be closed against her, and she would be an exile 
from all that a pure and true woman could hold dear. 

There were now no tears in her eyes, but a cold, 
dead weight at her heart ; and she trembled at the slight 
sound she made in closing the gate. 

What a strange, wild evening it was, as she got out- 
side, and turned to cross the moor over to the west ! 
Through a fierce glare of sunset she could see that all 
along the horizon, and high over the mountains of Arran, 
there lay a long wall of dense blue cloud. Underneath 
this the sea lay black ; the wind had not stirred the 
waves into breaking ; and she could only tell that 
the great dark plain moved in lines and lines, as if it 
were silently brooding over the secrets down in its 
depths. But over this dense wall of cloud lay the wild 
light of the sunset, and long fierce dashes of scarlet and 
gold ; while across the blaze of yellow there drifted 
streaks of pure silver, showing the coming of a storm. 
And up here on the moor the stretches of dry gray 
grass which alternated with brown patches of heather 
had, as it were, caught fire ; and the blowing and gusty 
light of the west burned along those bleak slopes until 
the eye was dazzled and pained by the glow. Even in 
the far east the clouds had a blush of pink over them, 
with rifts of green sky between , and the dark fir-woods 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


331 


that lay along the horizon seemed to dwell within a veil 
of crimson mist. 

There was a strange stillness up here on the moor, 
despite the fact that the wind was blowing the red 
clouds about, and causing now this and now that stretch 
of the gray moor to burn red under the shifting evening 
sky. There was quite an unusual silence, indeed, The 
birds seemed to have grown mute ; not even the late 
blackbird sang in the hawthorn bushes by the side of 
the moorland stream. Coquette hurried on, without let- 
ting her eyes wander to either side ; there was some- 
thing in the look of the moor and the wild light that 
alarmed her. 

Suddenly she was confronted by some one ; and, 
looking up with a sharp cry, she found the Pensioner 
before her. 

“ I hope I hafna frichtened ye, Miss Cassilis,” he 
said. 

“ No,” said Coquette, “ Bat I did not .expect to 
meet any one.” 

“ \^e will pe going on a veesit ; but dinna gang far, 
for it iss a stormy-looking nicht, and you will maybe get 
wat before sat you will get home.” 

“ Thank you. Good-night,” said Coquette hurry- 
ing on. 

“ Good-night,” said the Pensioner. 

Then he turned, and said, before she was out of 
hearing, — 

“ I’m saying, Miss Cassilis, maype you will know his 
Lordship iss never coming back to Earlshope no more, 
not even if he will pe unable to let sa house ? ” 

“ How should I know ? ” said Coquette, suddenly 
struck motipnless by the question. 

“ Maype no,” said the Pensioner, in a tone of apology. 
‘‘ Itwassonly that some o’ the neebors did see you 
speakin’ to Lord Earlshope this mornin’, and I was 
thinkin’ that very like he wass coming back to his ain 
house.” 

“ I know nothing about it,” said Coquette, hurrying 


332 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


on, with her heart overburdened with anguish and 
dread. 

For now she knew that all the people would learn 
why she had run away from her uncle’s house ; and 
they would carry to the old man the story of their hav- 
ing seen her talking to Lord Earlshope. But for that 
the Minister might have thought her drowned or per- 
ished in some way. That was all over; and her shame 
would be publicly known ; and he would have to bear 
it in his old age. 

Down at the end of the moor she turned to take a 
last look, at the Manse. Far up on the height the win- 
dows ot the small building were twinkling like gleam- 
• ing rubies : the gable and the wall around the garden 
were of a dusky red color; overhead the sky was apure, 
clear green, and the white sickle of a new moon w&S 
faintly visible. Never before had Airlie Manse seemed 
to her so lovable a place, so still and quiet and comfor- 
table. And when she thought of the old man who had 
been like a father to her, she could see no more through 
the tears that came welling up into her eyes, and she 
turned and continued on her way with many bitter sobs. 

The wind had grown chill. The wall of cloud was 
slowly rising in the west, until it had shut off half of the 
glowing colors of the sunset ; and the evening was be- 
coming rapidly darker. Then it seemed to Coquette 
that the black plain of the sea was getting strangely 
close to her, and she began to grow afraid of the gath- 
ering darkness. 

“ Why did he not come to meet me ? ” she mur- 
mured to herself. “ I have no courage — no hope — when 
he is not near.” 

It grew still darker, and yet she could not hurry 
her steps, for she trembled much, and was like to be- 
come faint. She had vague thoughts of returning ; and 
yet she went on mechanically, as if she had cast the 
die of her fate, and could no more be what she was. 

Then the first shock of the storm fell, fell with a crash 
on the fir-woods, and tore through them with a voice of 
thunder. All over now the sky was black ; and there 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


333 


was a whirlwind whitening the sea, the cry of which 
could be heard far out beyond the land. Then came the 
rain in wild, fierce torrents that blew about the wet 
— fields, and raised red channels of water in the roads. Co- 
quette had no covering of any sort. In a few minutes 
.she was drenched ; and yet she did not seem to know. 
She only staggered on blindly, in the vain hope of reach- 
ing Saltcoats before the darkness had fallen, and seeking 
some shelter. She would not go to meet Lord Earlshope. 
She would creep into some hovel ; and then, in the 
morning, send a message of repentance to her uncle, and 
go away somewhere, and never see any more the rela- 
tions and friends whom she had betrayed and disgraced. 

Nevertheless she still went recklessly on, her eyes 
confused by the rain, her brain a prey to wild and de- 
spairing thoughts. 

The storm grew in intensity. The roar of the sea 
. could now be heard far over the cry of the wind ; and 
the rain-clouds came across the sea in huge masses, and 
were blown down upon the land in hissing torrents. Still 
Coquette struggled on. 

At last she saw before her the lights of Saltcoats. 
But the orange points seemed to dance before her eyes. 
There was a burning in her head. And then, with a 
faint cry of"*' Uncle, uncle ! ” she sank down by the road- 
side. 

There was a sound of wheels. A wagonette was 
suddenly stopped just in front of her, and a man jumped 
down. 

“ What is the matter wi* ye, my lass ? Bless me, is it 
you, Miss Cassilis ? ” 

The girl was quite insensible, however ; and the man, 
who happened to know Miss Cassilis, lost no time in 
carrying her to the waggonette, and driving her on to 
his own house, which was but a few hundred yards farther 
on, at the entrance to the town. There his wife and one 
of the servants restored Coquette to consciousness, and 
had her wet clothes taken off, and herself put to bed. 
The girl seemed already feverish, if not; delirious. 

“ But what does she say of herself ? ” asked this Mr. 


134 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


M‘ Henry, when his wife came down. “ How did she 
come to be on the way to Saltcoats a’ by herself ? ” 

“ That I dinna ken,” said his wife ; “ but the first 
words she spoke were, ‘ Take me back to Airlie to my 
uncle. I will not go to Saltcoats. * ” 

“ I would send for the Minister,” said the husband, 
“ but no human being could win up to Airlie on such a 
nicht. We will get him down in the morning.” 

So Coquette remained in Saltcoats that night. Under 
Mrs. M’Henry’s treatment the fever abated ; and she lay 
during the darkness, and listened to the howling of the 
storm. Where was Lord Earlshope ? 

“ I hope he has gone away by himself to America, 
and that I will never see him again,” she murmured to 
herself. “ But I can never go back to Airlie any more.” 


\ 

CHAPTER XLIX. 

A SECRET OF THE SEA. 

Next morning there was a great commotion in Salt- 
coats. Despite the fierce gusts of wind that were still 
.blowing, accompanied by squally showers of rain, numbers 
of people were out on the long stretch of brown sand 
lying south of the town. Mischief had been at work on 
the sea over-night. Fragments of barrels, bits of spars, 
and other evidences of a wreck were being knocked 
about on the waves ; and two smacks had even put out 
to see if any larger remains of the lost vessel or vessels 
were visible, Mr. M’ Henry was early abroad ; for he 
had gone into the town to get a messenger, and so he 
heard the news. At last, amid the gossiping of the neigh- 
bors, he learned that a lad had just been summoned by a 
certain Mrs. Kilbride to go up on an errand to Airlie, 
and lie resolved to secure His services to carry the mes- 
sage. 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


335 


Eventually he met the lad on his way to the moor- 
land village, and then it turned out that the errand was 
merely to carry a letter to Miss Cassilis, at the Manse. 

But Miss Cassalis is at my house,” said Mr. 
M’Henry. “ Give me the letter, and gang ye on to the 
Manse and ask Mr. Cassilis to come doon here.” 

So the lad departed, and the letter was taken up and 
placed on the table where Coquette was to have her 
breakfast. 

She came down, looking very pale, but would give no 
explanation of how she came to be out on such a night. 
She thanked them for having sent for her uncle, and sat 
down at the table, but ate nothing. 

Then she saw the letter, and, with a quick, pained 
flush of color leaping to her cheeks, she took it up and 
opened it with trembling fingers. Then she read these 
words,— 

“ Dearest, — I cannot exact from you the sacrifice of 
your life. Remorse and misery for all the rest of our 
years would be the penalty to both of us by your going 
with me to-night, even though you might put a brave 
face on the matter, and conceal your anguish. I cannot 
let you suffer that, Coquette. I will leave for America 
by myself ; and I will never attempt to see you again. 
That promise I have broken before ; b # ut it will not be 
broken this time. Good-bye, Coquette. My earnest hope * 
is that you will not come to Saltcoats to-night; and, in 
that case, this letter will be forwarded to you in the morn- 
ing. Forgive me, if you can, for all the suffering I have 
caused you. I will never forget you, darling, but I will 
never see England or you again. 

“ Earlshope.” 

There was almost a look of joy on her face. 

“So I did not vex him,” she thought, “by keeping 
him waiting. And he has conquered too ; and he will 
think better of himself and of me away over there for 
many years to come, if he does not forget all about 
Airlie.” 


33 6 


A DAUGHTER OF II ETH. 


And that reference to Airlie recalled the thought of 
her uncle, and of his meeting with her. As the time 
drew near for his approach she became more and more 
downcast. When, at last, the old man came into the 
room where she was sitting alone, her eyes were fixed 
on the ground, and she dared not raise them. 

He went over to her, and placed his hand on her 
head. 

“What is all this, Catherine ? Did you miss your 
way last night ? What made ye go out on such a night, 
without saying a word to any one ? ” 

She replied in a low voice, which was yet studiously 
distinct, — 

“ Yesterday afternoon I went away from the Manse, 
not intending to go back.” 

The Minister made a slight gesture as if some twinge 
had shot across his heart ; and then, looking at her in a 
sad and grave way, he said, — 

“ I did not think I had been unkind to you, Cathe- 
rine.” 

This was too much for Coquette. It broke down the 
obduracy with which she had been vainly endeavoring to 
fortify herself ; and she fell at the feet of her uncle, and, 
with wild tears and sobs, told him all that had happened, 
and begged him to go away and leave her, for she had be- 
come a stranger and an outcast. Stunned as the old 
man was by these revelations, he forgot to express his 
sense of her guilt. He saw only before him the daugh- 
ter of his own brother, a girl who had scarce a friend in 
the world but himself, and she was at his feet in tears 
and shame and bitter distress. He raised her and put 
her head on his breast, and tried to still her sobbing. 

“ Catherine,” he said, with his own voice broken, “ you 
shall never be an outcast from my house, so long as you 
care to accept its shelter.” 

“ But I cannot go back to Airlie — I cannot go back 
to Airlie ! ” she said, almost wildly. “ I will not bring 
disgrace upon you, uncle ; and have the people talk of 
me, and blame you for taking me back. I am going 
away — I am not fit to go back to Airlie, uncle. You 


A DAUGHTER OF IIETH. 


337 


have been very good to me-^far better than I deserve ; 
but I cannot tell you now that I love you for all your 
kindness to me — for now it is a disgrace for me to speak 
to any one ” 

“ Hush, Catherine,” he said. “It is penitence, not 
despair, that must fill your heart. And the penitent has 
not to look to man for pardon, nor yet to fear what may 
be said of him in wrath. They that go elsewhere for 
forgiveness and comfort have no reason to dread the ill- 
tongues of their neighbors. * They looked unto Him, 
and were lightened; and their faces were not ashamed. 
This poor man cried, and the Lord heard him, and saved 
him out of all his troubles.’ You will go back to Airlie 
with me, my girl. Perhaps you do not feel at home 
there yet ; three years is not a long time to get accus- 
tomed to a new country. I am told ye sometimes cried 
in thinking about France, just as the Jews in captivity 
did, when they said, ‘ By the rivers of Babylon, there^ 
we sat down ; yea, we wept when we remembered 
Zion.’ But maybe I have erred in not making the house 
lichtsome enough for ye. I am an old man, Catherine ; 
and the house is dull, perhaps. But if ye will tell me 
how we can make it pleasanter to ye ” 

“ Oh, uncle, you are breaking my heart with your 
kindness ! ” she sobbed ; “ and I deserve none of it ; 
none of it ! ” 

Ipwas with great difficulty that the Minister per- 
suaded her to go back with him to the Manse. At 
length, however, a covered carriage was procured, and 
Coquette and her uncle were driven up to Airlie. The 
girl sat now quite silent and impassive ; only when she 
saw any one of the neighbors passing along the road she 
seemed nervously anxious to avoid scrutiny. When they 
got up to the gate of the Manse, which was open, she 
walked quietly and sadly by her uncle’s side across the 
bit of garden into the house, and was then for going up- 
stairs by herself. Her uncle prevented her. 

“ Ye must come and sit wi’ me for a little while, until 
Leezibeth has got some breakfast ready for ye.” 


33 S A DAUGHTER OF HETIJ. 

“I do not want anything to eat,” said Coquette ; and 
she seemed afraid of the sound of her own voice. 

“ Nevertheless,” said the Minister, “ I would inquire 
farther into this matter, Catherine. It is but proper 
that I should know what measure of guilt falls upon 
that young man in endeavoring to wean away a respect- 
able girl from her home and her friends.” 

Coquette drew back, with some alarm visible on her 
face. 

“ Uncle, I cannot tell you now. Some other time, 
perhaps ; but not now* not now. And you must not 
think him guilty, uncle ; it is I who am guilty of it all ; 
he is much better than any of you think, and now he is 
away to America, and no one will defend him if he is 
accused.” < 

At the moment that she spoke Lord Earlshope was 
beyond the reach of accusation and defence. The Salt- 
coats people, towards the afternoon, discovered the lid 
of a chest floating about, and on it was painted in white 
letters the word Caroline. Later there came a telegram 
from Greenock to the effect that during the procedi ng 
night the schooner yacht Caroline had been run down and 
sunk in mid-channel by a steamer going to Londonderry, 
and that, of all on board the yacht, the steamer had 
been able to pick up only the steward. And that same 
night the news made its way up to Airlie, and circulated 
through the village, and at length reached the Manse. 
Other rumors accompanied it. For the moment, no one 
dared to tell Coquette of what had happened ; but none 
the less was her flight from the Manse connected with 
this terrible judgment ; and even Leezibeth, struck 
dumb' with shame and grief, had no word of protest when 
Andrew finished his warnings and denunciations. 

“ There is no healing of thy bruise,” said Leezibeth 
to herself sadly, in thinking of Coquette. “Thy wound 
is grievous : all that hear the bruit of thee shall clap their 
hands over thee.” 


A DA UGH TER OF HRTH. 


339 


CHAPTER L. 

CONSENT. 

Sharp and bitter was the talk that ran through 
Airlie about the Minister’s niece ; and Coquette knew 
of it, and shrank away from the people, and would fain 
have hidden herself from the light as one' occursed. 
Now indeed she knew what it was to have a ban placed 
upon her ; and all the old fearless consciousness of 
right had gone, so that she could no longer attempt to 
win over the people to her by patience and sweetness, 
and the charm of her pleasant ways. She had fallen 
too far in her own esteem ; and Leezibeth began to be 
alarmed about the effects of that calm and reticent sad- 
ness, which had grown to be the normab expression of 
Coquette’s once light and happy face. 

It was Leezibeth who unintentionally confirmed the „ 
surmises of the villages, by begging the Minister to con- 
ceal from Coquette the knowledge of Lord Earlshope’s 
tragic death. The Minister, anxious above all things 
for the girl’s health, consented ; and it then became 
necessary to impose silence on those who were likely to 
meet Coquette elsewhere. So it became known that 
mention of Lord Earlshope was not to be made to this 
quiet and pale-faced girl, who still, in spite of her sad- 
ness, had something of a proud air, and looked at peo- 
ple unflinchingly with her dark and troubled eyes, as 
though she would ask them what they thought of her. 

Whether this policy of silence were advisable or not, 
it was certainly not very prudent to conceal from the 
Whaup likewise all intelligence of what had happened. 
He had heard of Lord Earlshope’s death, of course, and 
was a little surprised to be asked not to mention the mat- 
ter in his letters to Coquette ; but beyond that, he was 
in complete ignorance of all that had occurred at Airlie 
in his absence. But by and by rumors came to him. 


340 


a Daughter of he tie 

■ He began to grow uneasy. Finally he saw- L.ady Drum ; 
and she, seeing the necessity of being explicit, told him 
everything in as gentle a way as she could. 

“ And so,’’ he said, “ my cousin is looked upon as an 
outcast ; and the good people of Airlie say evil things of 
her ; and I suppose wonder why she dares go into the 
church.” 

Lady Drum made no reply ; he had but described 
the truth. 

Then the Whaup rose up, like a man, and said, — 

“ Lady Drum, I am going down to Airlie to get Co- 
quette to marry me, and I will take her away from there, 
and the people may talk then until their rotten tongues 
drop out/’ 

Lady Drum rose too, and put her hand on his shoulder, 
and said gently, — 

“ If I were a man, that is what I would do. Off wi’ 
ye to Airlie directly, and whether she say yes or no, 
bring her away wi’ ye as your wife. That will mend a 
gr^at many matters.” 

So the Whaup went down to Airlie, and all the way 
in the train his heart was on fire with various emotions 
of pity and anger and love, and his brain busy with plans 
and schemes. He would have liked another year’s prep- 
aration, perhaps ; but his position now with regard to 
Dr. Menzies was fully secured, and his income, if not a 
very big one, sufficient for the meantime. And when 
he went up to Airlie, and reached the Manse, he lhade 
no inquiries of anybody, but went straight, in his old im- 
petuous way, into the room where he expected to find 
Coquette. 

Coquette was alone, and when he opened the door 
he found her eyes fixed on him. 

“ Oh, Coquette, you are ill ! ” he said seizing both her 
hands and looking into her face. 

“ No,” she said, “ I am no'; ill. You must not vex 

■ yourself about me, it is only I have not been much out 
of late.” 

“ Ah, I know why you have not been out,” he $aid, ‘ 
r< and I am come down to put all these things straight. 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Til. 


341 


Coquette, you must marry me now. I won’t go away 
unless you go with me as mywife. That is what I have 
come down for.” 

The girl had started, as though a whip had stung her ; 
and now a flush of shame and pain was visible in her 
face. She withdrew her hands from his, and said, with 
her eyes cast down, — 

“ I understand why you come down. You know what 
they say of me. You wish to marry me to prove it is 
not t/ue, and give me some better opinion of myself. 
That is very good of you ; it is what I did expect of you , 
— but, but I am too proud to be married in that way, and 
I do not wish any sacrifice from anybody.” 

“ What is the use of talking like that, Coquette ? ” 
he said, impetuously. ‘‘What has sacrifice or pride got 
to do between you and me ? Why need you care what 
the people at Airlie or the people all over the world think 
of you ? I know all about that, Coquette, I know the 
whole story ; and I look into your eyes, and I know that 
I am doing right. Look here Coquette, I am going to 
take you away. I will teach you what to think of your- 
self, and then you will talk no more of sacrifice. Sacrifice ! 
If there is any sacrifice, it is in your thinking of marry- 
ing a good-for-nothing fellow like me. It’s like .a princess 
marrying a gamekeeper fellow, or something like that ; 
and you talk of sacrifice, and what the wretched idiots ' 
of a ridiculous little village think of you ! Why Coquette ! 
It all comes of your being shut up here, and seeing/ 
nothing, and being left to your own dreams. You are 
getting distorted views of everything in this dismal place. 
It’s like conducting experiments in a vacuum : what you 
want is to get braced up by the actual atmosphere of 
the world, and learn how things work there, and dis- 
cover the value that people will put upon you. What 
can the croaking frogs of a marsh like this know of you 
or your value Coquette ? Don’t you remember how you 
went about Lady Drum’s rooms like a queen ; and every- 
body waited on you ; and I scarcely dared come near 
you ? Sacrifice ! You ought to be ashamed of yourself, 
Coquette.” 


342 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


He spoke in the old and rapid fashion with which she 
used to be familiar ; and his cheeks were flushed with 
enthusiasm ; and his handsome face full of daring and 
confidence, as though he would have laughed at her 
scruples and defied the world for her sake. Perhaps he 
did not despise Airlie altogether as much as he said ; but 
in the hot haste of his eloquence there was no time to be 
particular, or even just. 

“ You are as impetuous as f?ver, and you are as gen- 
erous as ever ; but you are grown no wiser,” sire said, 
looking at him in a kindly way. “ For me, I have grown 
much older than when we went about here. I do see 
many things differently ; and just now I must tell you 
what is right and best for both of us. You must not 
say any more about our marriage ; but go up to Glasgow 
again, and forget all about me. If it is painful for you 
in the meantime, I am- sorry ; it will be better for you 
by and by. If you did marry a wife who had not a good 
name among all people, strangers as well, you might 
not care for a little while, but you would remember of it 
afterwards, and that would be very sorrowful for both.” 

With that she rose and would have passed him, and 
gone to the door. But he stood in her way, and con- 
fronted her, and said, with a certain coldness of tone, — 

“ You must answer me one question, Coquette, 
clearly and truthfully. Is all that you say merely an 
excuse for breaking off our marriage altogether ? ” 

She looked surprised. 

“ Then you do no longer believe I speak the truth ? 
An excuse, that is something untrue. No — I have no 
need of excuses.” 

She would have left the room then, but he caught 
her hand and said, — 

“ We are no longer children, Coquette. This is too 
serious a matter to be settled by a mere misunder- 
standing or a quarrel. I want to know if you have no 
other reason to postpone our marriage, or break it up 
altogether, than the foolish talk that prevails in the 
village ? ” 

“ You do forget,” she said, evidently forcing herself 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


343 


to speak in a cold and determined manner, “that the 
people have some right to talk, that I did go away from 

the Manse, expecting ” 

She could get no further. She shuddered violently ; 
and then, sitting down, covered her face with her hands. 
“ I tell you I know all about that, Coquette,” he 

said, sadly. “ It was very bitter for me to hear it ” 

“ And then you did come here, despising me, and 
yet wishing to marry me, so that I might not be too cast 
down. It is very generous, but you see it is impossi- 
ble.” 

“ And you mean that as a final answer, Coquette ? ” 
She looked up into his face. 

“Yes,” she said, with her eyes fixed on his. * 

“ Good-bye, then, Coquette,” said he. 

Anxious as was her scrutiny, she could not tell how 
he received this announcement, but the tone in which 
he bade her good-bye went like a knife to her heart. 
She held out her hand and said, or was about to say, 
“ Good-bye,” when, somehow, she failed to reach his 
hand, and the room seemed to swim round. Then there 
was a space of blank unconsciousness, followed by the 
slow breathing of returning life, and she knew that he 
was bathing her forehead with a handkerchief and cold 
. water. 

“*You must not go away like that,” she said to him, 
when she had somewhat recovered ; “ I have few 
friends.” 

And so, sitting down beside her, he began to tell 
her in a gentle and, at times, somewhat embarrassed 
voice the story of his love for her, and all the plans he 
had formed, and how his only hope in the world was to 
marry her. He did not care what lay in the past ; the 
future was to be theirs, and he would devote himself to 
making her once more the light-hearted Coquette of for- 
mer days. He spoke to her as if afraid to disturb her 
even by the urgency of his affection ; and while he 
talked in this low and earnest fashion, the girl’s eyes 
were wistful and yet pleased, as if she were looking at 


344 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


the pictures he drew of a happy future for both of them 
and beginning to believe in their possibility. 

“ People have sorrows and disappointments, you 
know, Coquette,” he said, “ and yet they forget them 
in great measure, for it is useless to spend a lifetime in 
looking back. And people do weak things and cruel 
things that haunt their conscience and trouble them 
bitterly ; but even these are lightened by time. And 
the ill opinion of the world, that, too, gets removed by 
time ; and all the old years, with their griefs and their 
follies and mistakes, get wiped out. You are too young 
to think that life has been irretrievably spoiled for you. 
You have got another life to set out on ; and you may 
ciepepd on my making it as pleasant ancj as comfortable 
as possible, if you will only give me the chance.’’ 

“You do talk as if it was my pleasure and comfort I 
did think of,” said Coquette. “ No, that is not so. When 
I did say I would not marry you, it was for your sake ; 
and then, when you seemed to be going away estranged 
from me, I thought I would do anything to keep you my 
friend. So I will now. Is that all true you say, my 
poor boy, about your caring only for one thing in the 
world ? Will your life be wretched if I am not your 
wife ? 1'ecause then I will marry you, if you like,” 

“ Ah ! do you say that, Coquette ? ” he said, with a 
flash of joy in his eyes. 

There was no such joy visible on her face. 

“ If you could say to yourself,” she added, calmly, 
“ after a little time, ‘ I will keep Coquette as my friend, 
as my best friend, but I will marry somebody else,’ that 
would be better for you.” 

“ It would be nothing of the kind,” he said, cheer- 
fully, “ nor for you either. I am about to set. myself 
the task of transforming you Coquette, and in a year or 
two you won’t know yourself.” 

“ In a year or two,” she repeated, th plight fully. 

“ You know I am a doctor now, and I am going to 
become your attendant physician, and I will prescribe 
for you, Coquette, plenty of amusement and holidays, 
and of course I will go with you to see that my orders 


4 DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


345 


arc obeyed. And you will forget everything that is 
past and gone, for I will give you plenty to think about 
in managing the details of the house, you know, and 
arranging for people coming to see you in the evenings. 
And then, in the autumn-time, Coquette, you will get 
as brown as a berry among the valleys and the moun- 
tains of Switzerland ; and if we come through France, 
you shall be interpreter for me, and take the tickets, you 
know, and complain to the landlords. All that, and 
ever so much more, lies before you ; and all that is to 
be done in the meantime is to^get you away from this 
melancholy place, that has been making you wretched 
and pale and sad. Now, Coquette, tell me when I am 
to take you away.” 

She rose with almost an expression of alarm on her 
face. 

u Ah, not yet, not, yet,” she said. <f You will think 
over it first, perhaps you will alter your intentions.” 

“ I sha’n’t do anything of the kind, Coquette, unless 
you alter yours. Mind you, I don’t mean to goad you 
into marrying me ; and if you say now that it vexes.you 
to think of it ” 

u It does not vex me, if it wiU make you happy, ’’ she 
said. 

“ Then you don’t wish to rescind your promise.” 

“ No, I do not wish it.” 

“ And you will really become my wife, Coquette ? ” 

She hesitated for a moment ; and then she said, in a 
low r voice, — 

“ I will be your wife if you wish it, and make you 
as happy as I can ; but not yet, Tom, not yet; and you 
must not be vexed if I cannot set a time.” 

With that she left the room ; and he flung himself 
into a chair to ponder over his recollections of an inter- 
view which seemed very strange and perplexing to him. 
“It does not vex me, if it will make you happy ” — that 
was all he could get her to say. No expression of in- 
terest, no hopeful look, such as a girl naturally wears 
in talking of her coming marriage. And these moods 


346 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


of fear, of despondency, even bordering on wild despair, 
what did they mean ? 

“ There is something altogether wrong in her rela- 
tions with the people around her/’ he said. “ She 
seems to labor under a burden of self-constraint and of 
sadness which would in another year kill a far stronger 
woman than she is. The place does not suit her ; the 
people don’t suit her. Everything seems to have gone 
wrong ; and the Coquette I see bears no resemblance 
to the Coquette who came here a few years ago. What- 
ever it is that is wrong, aur marriage will solve the prob- 
lem, and transfer her to a new sphere and new associa- 
tions.” 

The Whaup endeavored to reassure himself with 
these forecasts ; but did not quite succeed, for there 
was a vague doubt and anxiety hanging about his mind 
which would not be exorcised. 


* CHAPTER LI. 

THE PALE BRIDE. 

The Whaup telegraphed to Dr. Menzies for permis- 
sion to remain at Airlie another couple of days, and re- 
ceived it. He made good use of his time. Some brief 
conversations he had with Leezibeth in ^regard to Co- 
quette quickened his resolve. He went to* his father, 
too, and told him of his wishes. 

The old man could at first scarcely credit this strange 
announcement. He had never even suspected his son 
of being particularly fond of Coquette ; and now his 
first idea was that the Whaup in an exceptionally chiv- 
alrous fashion had proposed to marry her as an answer 
to the evil rumors that were afloat. He was soon dis- 
abused on this point. Confidences on such a point, be- 
tween father and son, are somewhat embarrassing things, 
particularly in most Scotch households, where reticence 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


347 


on matters of the affections is carried to a curious ex- 
treme ; but the Whaup was too deeply in earnest , to 
think of himself. With a good deal of rough eloquence, 
and even a touch of pathos here and there, he pleaded the 
case of Coquette and himself; and at the end of it the 
Minister, who was evidently greatly disturbed, said he 
would consider the subject in privacy. The Whaup 
left his father’s study with a light heart ; he knew that 
the Minister’s great affection for his niece would carry 
the day, were all Airlie to sign a protest. 

The Whaup was in the garden. His brothers were at 
school ; Coquette had disappeared, he knew not whither; 
and he was amusing himself by whistling in reply to a 
blackbird hid in a holly-tree. The Minister came out of 
the house and gravely walked up to his son, and said, — 

“You have done well in this matter. I do not say 
that, under other circumstances, I might not have pre- 
ferred seeing you marry a wife of your own country, and 
one accustomed to our ways and homely fashion of living, 
and, above all, one having more deeply at heart our own 
traditions of faith. But your duty to your own kinswoman, 
who is suffering from the suspicions of the vulgar, must 
count for something— — ’’ 

“ But what counts most of all, father, ” said the Whaup, 
who would not have it thought he was conferring a favor 
on Coquette, “ is her own rare excellence. Where could 
I get a wife like her? I don’t care twopenceTarthing for 
all that Airlie, and a dozen neighboring parishes, may 
think or say of her, when I know her to be what she is. 
And you know what she is, father ; and the best thing 
you can do for her is to persuade her to be married as 
soon as possible, for I mean to take her away from here, 
and see if I cannot break that sort of dead calm that 
seems to have settled over her.” 

“ The Manse will be very lonely without her, ” said 
the Minister. 

“ Look here, father, ” said the Whaup, with a great 
lump rising in his throat, “ the Manse would be very 
lonely if she were to remain as she is much longer. Leezi- 
beth says she eats nothing she never goes out ; only 


A DAUGHTER Ob HE TIL 


348 

that dull, uncomplaining monotony of sadness, and the 
listless days, and the reading of religious books. I know 
how that would end if it went on, and I don’t mean to 

let Coquette slip out of our fingers like that, and I ” 

The Whaup could say no more. He turned aside, and 
began to kick the gravel with his foot. The Minister 
put his hand on his son’s shoulder, and said, — 

“ My boy, you may have more watchful eyes than 
mine in such matters ; and, if this be as you suspect, I 
will use all my influemce with her, although her mar 
riage will make a great difference to me. ” 

The Whaup, however, was not one to have his wooing 
done by proxy. During the remainder of his brief stay 
in Airlie he urged Coquette with gentleness, and yet 
with earnestness, to fix a time for their marriage. At 
first she was startled by the proposal, and avoided it in a 
frightened way ; but at length she seemed to be won round 
by his representations and entreaties. He did not tell 
her one reason for his thus hurrying on her departure 
from Airlie. It was entirely as securing his own happi- 
ness that he drew pleasant pictures of the future, and sat 
and talked to her of all she would see when they went 
away together, and endeavored to win her consent. Then, 
on the kn^t evening of his visit, they were sitting together 
in the hushed parlor, speaking in low tones, so as not 
to disturb the reading of the Minister. 

“ I do think it is a great misfortune that you are so 
fond of me, ” she said looking at him with a peculiar 
tenderness in her eyes ; “ but it seems as if the world 
were all misfortune, and if it will make you happy for me 
to marry you, I will do that ; for you have always been 
very kind to me, and it is very little that I can do in return; 
but if this will please you, I am glad of that, and I will 
make you as good a wife as I can. ” 

That was her reply to his entreaties ; and, in token 
of her obedience, she took his hand and pressed it to her 
lips. There was something in this mute surrender that 
was inexpressibly touching to the Whaup ; and for a 
moment his conscience smote him, and he asked himself 
if he were not exacting too much of a sacrifice from|gJns 


A DA CG II TEX OF IIE TIL 


349 


tender-hearted girl, who sat pale and resigned even in the 
moment of settling her marriage-day. 

“ Coquette,” said he, “ am I robbing you of any other 
happiness that you could hope for ? Is there any other 
prospect in life that you are secretly wishing for ? ” 

“ There is not,” she said, calmly. 

“ None ? ” 

“ None ? ” 

“ Then I will make this way of it as happy for you as 
I possibly can. And when, Coquette? You have never 
named a time yet.” 

“ Let it be whenever you please,” she answered, look- 
ing down, 

The Whaup rose, and pulled himself up to his full 
height, as if, for theJirst time, he could breathe freely. 

“Father,” said he, “ have you any objection to my 
going across the moor and ringing the church bell ?*’ 

The Minister looked up. 

“ We are going to have a marriage in the Manse in 
two or three weeks,” said the Whaup. 

* Coquette went over to the old man’s chair, and knelt 
down by his side, and took his hand in hers. 

“ I shall be sorry to lose you, Catherine ; but I trust 
you will be. more cheerful and happy in your new home 
than you could be in this dull house,” said the Minister. 

“ You have been very kind to me, uncle,’’ she said. • 

With that the Whaup went outside, and clambered up 
into the hay-loft, and roused up his brothers, who were in 
bod, if not all asleep. 

“<«£et up, the whole of you ! ” he said ; “ get on your 
clothes, and come into the house. Look sharp, there’s 
something fdr you to he^r.” 

’'i i^eezibeth was alarmed by the invasion of the Manse 
which took place shortly, after, and came running to see 
what had brought the boys in at that time of night. 
The Whaup.bade Leezibeth come into the parlor to witness’ 
the celebration ; and there they were introduced by the 
Whaup, who made a pretty speech, to their future sister- 
in-law and they were ordered to give her good wishes, and 
therkthey all sat down to a sumptuous, if hastily prepared, 


350 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


b&nquet of currant bun, with a glass of raspberry wine 
to each of them. Coquette was pleased ; and the tinge 
of color that came to her cheeks made the Whaup think 
she was beginning to look like a bride. As for the boys, 
they expressed their delight chiefly by grinning and show- 
ing their white teeth as they ate the cake ; one of them 
only remarking confidentially, — 

“ We a’ kenned this would be the end o’t.” 

The chorus of laughter which greeted this remark 
showed that it expressed a general sentiment. Nor was 
their merriment lessened when the Whaup cut off a 
very small piece of cake, and said to Leezibeth, — 

“ Take this to Andrew, with my compliments. He 
will be delighted with the news.” . 

u Andrew or no Andrew,” said Leezibeth, who seemed 
rather inclined to cry out of pure sympathy ; “ ye may be 
a proud man on your marriage-day, Maistqr Tammas ; and 
ve’ll take good care o’ her, and bring her sometimes down 
to Airlie where there’s some maybe that likes her better 
than they can just put into words.” 

And so it was that on a fresh June morning, when the 
earth lay warm and silent in the bright sunshine, and the 
far sea was as blue and clear as the heart of a sapphire, 
Coquette arrayed herself in white garments. There was 
a great stir about the Manse that morning, and the boys 
were dressed in their Sunday clothes. Flowers were all 
about the place ; and many innocent little surprises in 
the way of decoration had been planned by the Whaup 
himself. The Manse looked quite bright, indeed ; and 
Leezibeth had assumed an unwonted importance. 

Coquette’s bridesmaids were the Misses Menzies, and 
the Doctor was there too, and Lady Drum and Sir Peter. 
According to the custom of the country, the marriage was 
to take place in the house ; and when they had all assem- 
bled in the largest room, the bride walked slowly in, 
followed by her bridesmaids. 

In a church, amid a crowd of spectators, there would 
have been a murmur of wonder and admiration over the 
strange loveliness of the small and delicately modelled 
woman, whose jet-black tresses and dark and wistful eyes 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


35 1 


seemed all the darker by reason of the snowy whiteness 
of her dress and the paleness of the yellow blossoms and 
pearls that shone in the splendid luxuriance of her hair. 
But her friends there almost forgot how lovely she was 
in regarding the expression of her face, so immovably 
calm it was, and sad. Lady Drum’s heart was touched 
with a sudden fear. This was not the look of a bride ; 
but the look of a woman strangely young to have such 
an expression, who seemed to have abandoned all hope 
in this world. She was not anxious or perturbed or pale 
through any special excitement or emotion ; she stood 
throughout the long and tedious service as though she 
were unconcious of what was happening around her, and, 
when it was over, she received the congratulations of her 
friends as though she had awakened out of a dream. 

The Whaup, too, noticed this look ; but he had seen 
much of it lately, and was only rendered the more anx- 
ious to take her away and lighten her spirits by change 
of scene. And now he saw himself able to do that, he 
was full of confidence. There was no misgiving in his 
dook. As he stood there, taller by a head than his own 
father, with his light-brown hair thrown carelessly back 
from a face bright with health and the tanning of th* 
sun, it was apparent that the atmosphere of the great 
city had not had much effect upon the lithe and stalwart 
and vigorous frame. And his voice was as gentle as that 
of a woman when he went forward, for the first time after 
the ceremony, and said to Coquette — 

“You are not tired with standing so long, Co- 
quette ? ” 

She started slightly. Then, perhaps noticing that 
the eyes of her bridesmaids were upon her, and recollect- 
ing that she ought to wear a more cheerful expression, 
she smiled faintly, and said, — 

“ You must not call me that foolish name any more. 
It is part of the old time when we were girl and boy 
together . v 

“ But I shall never find any name for you that I shall 
like better,” said he. 

About an hour thereafter all preparations had been 


352 


A DAUGHTER OF HE Tff. 


made for their departure ; and the carriage was waiting 
outside. There was a great shaking of hands and kiss- 
ing and leave taking; and then/ last of all, the Minister 
stood by the door of the carriage as Coquette came out. 

“ Good-bye, my dear daughter,” he said, placing his 
hand on her head; “ may He that watched over Jacob, 
and followed him in all his wanderings with blessings, 
watch over you and bless you at all times and in all 
places ! ” 

Coquette’s lips began to tremble. She had main- 
tained her composure to the last ; but now, as she kissed 
her uncle, she could not say farewell in words ; and when 
at length she was driven away, she covered her face with 
her hands and burst into tears. 

“ Coquette,” said her husband, “ are you sorry, after 
all, to leave Airlie ? ” 

There was no answer but the sound of her sobbing. 


CHAPTER LI I. 

HUSBAND AND WIFE. 

So blinded by his exceeding happiness was the Whaup 
that for a little time he could scarcely tell how the rapid 
change of scene and incident following their marriage 
was affecting Coquette’s health and spirits. He was so 
near her now, tending her with an extreme and anxious 
tenderness, that he could not regard her critically and 
see whether the old sad look was leaving her eyes. Did 
she not express her pleasure at the various things she 
saw ? Was she not so very kind and affectionate towards 
him that he had to protest against her little submissive 
attentions, and point Out that it was his business to wait 
upon her, not hers to wait upon him ? 

They went to Edinburgh first, and then to West- 
moreland, and then to London, which was then in the 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


353 


height of the season. And they went into the Park on 
the summer forenoons, and sat down on the little green 
chairs under the lime-trees, and looked at the brilliant 
assemblage of people there, cabinet ministers, actresses, 
Gun-club heroes, authors, artists, titled barristers, and 
all the rank and file of fashion. So eager was the 
Whaup to interest his companion that it is to be feared 
he made rather random shots in identifying the men and 
women cantering up and down, and conferred high of- 
ficial dignities on harmless country gentlemen who were 
but simple M. P.’s. 

“ There are many pretty ladies here,” said Co- 
quette, with a smile, as the slow procession of loungers 
passed up and down, “ and yet you do not seem' to know 
one.” 

“ I know one who is prettier than them all put to- 
gether,” said the Whaup, with a glow of pride and ad- 
miration in his face ; and then he added, “ I say, Co 
quette, how did you manage to dress just like those 
people when you lived away down in Airlie ? I think 
; you must have sent surreptitiously to London for the 
dresses that used to astonish the quiet kirk-folk. Then 
you always had the knack of wearing a flower or a rose- 
bud here or there, just as those ladies do, only I don’l 
think any flowers are so becoming as those little yellow 
blossoms that are on a certain little white bonnet tha: 
a particular little woman I know wears at this moment.’ 

“ Ah, it is of no use,” said Coquette, with a sigh or 
resignation. “I have tried ; I have lectuied ; I have 
scolded ; it is no use. You do not know the rudeness of 
talking of people’s dresses, and paying them rough com- 
pliments about their prettiness, and making inquiries 
which gentlemen have nothing to do with. I have tried 
to teach you all this, and you will not learn, and you do 
not know that you have very savage manners.” 

“ Coquette,” said he, “ if you say another word I 
will kiss you.” 

“ And I should not be surprised,” she answered, with 
the slightest possible shrug. “ I do not think you 
have any more respect for the public appearances than 


354 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


when you did torment the people at Airlie. You are 
still a boy, that is true, and I do wonder you will not 
sing aloud now, * Come, lassies and lads/ or some such 
folly. You have grown — yes. You wear respectable 
clothes and a hat, but it is I who have made you dress 
like other people, instead of the old careless way. You 
do know something more, but it is all got out of books. 
What are you different from the tall, big, coarse, rude 
boy who did break windows and rob gardens and frigh- 
ten people at Airlie ? ” 

“ How am I different ? ” said the Whaup. “ Well, 
I used to be bullied by a schoolmaster, but now I am 
bullied by a schoolmistress ; and she’s the worse of the 
two. That’s all the change I’ve made.” 

And sometimes, when they had gone on in this ban- 
tering fashion for awhile, she would suddenly go up to 
him if they were indoors, that is to say, and put her 
hand on his arm and timidly hope that she had not an- 
noyed him. At first the Whaup laughed at the very 
notion of his being vexed with her, and dismissed the 
tender little penitent with a rebuke and a kiss ; but by 
and by he grew to dread these evidences of a secret 
wish to please him and be submissive. He began to 
see how Coquette had formed some theory of what her 
duties were, and continually referred to this mental ta- 
ble of obligations rather than to her own spontaneous 
impulses of the moment. She seemed to consider that 
such and such things were required of her ; and while 
there was something to him inexpressibly touching in 
her mute obedience, and in her timid anticipation of his 
wishes, he would far rather have beheld her the high- 
spirited Coquette of old, with her arch ways and fits of 
rebellion and independence. 

“ Coquette,” he said, “ I will not have you wait upon 
me like this. It is very kind of you, you know ; but it 
is turning the world upside down. It is my business to 
wait on you, and see that everything is made nice 
for you, and have you treated like a queen. And 
when you go about like that, and bother yourself to 
serve me, I feel as uncomfortable as the beggars in old 


A Dsi j GETTER OF HE TIE 


355 


times must have felt who had their feet washed by a 
pious princess. I won’t have my Coquette disguised as 
a waiting-maid.” 

“ You are very good to me,” she said, gently. 

“ Nonsense ! ” he replied. “ Who could help being 
good to >ou, Coquette ? You seem to have got into 
your head some notion that you owe kindness and 
thoughtfulness to the people around you ; whereas you 
are conferring a benefit on everybody by being merely 
what you are, and showing those around you what a 
good thing is a good woman. Why should you have 
this exaggerated humility ? Why should you play the 
part of a penitent ? ” 

V/as she playing the part of a penitent ? he some- 
times asked himself.' Had she not forgotten the events 
of that bygone time which seemed, to him at least, a 
portion of a former existence ? When the Whaup and 
his young wife returned to Glasgow, he had more leisure 
to speculate on this matter ; and he came to the con- 
clusion that not only had she forgotten nothing, but that 
a sombre shadow from the past was ever present to her 
and hung continually over her life. 

In no way did she lessen her apparent desire to be 
dutiful and kind and attentive to him. The Whaup, 
who could have fallen at her feet and kissed them in token 
of the love and admiration he felt for the beautiful young 
life that was only now revealing to him all its hidden 
graces of tenderness and purity and rectitude, could not 
bear to have Coquette become his slave. 

“ And may I not show to you that I am grateful to 
you for all your kindness ever since I did come to this 
country ? ” she said. 

“ Grateful to me ! ” he cried. “ Cqouette, you don’t 
know your own value.” 

“ But if it pleases me to be your servant ? ” she 
said. 

“ It does not please me,” he retorted ; “ and I won’t 
have it.” 

(i Voyez un- Pen ce tyran /” said Coquette, and the 
Whaup laughed and gave in. 


4 DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


35 6 


It may be supposed that that was not a very unhappy 
household in which the only ground of' quarrel between 
husband and wife was as to which should be the more 
kind and attentive to the other. And indeed, to all out- 
ward semblance, the Whaup was the most fortunate of 
men ; and his friends who did not envy him rejoiced at 
his good fortune, and bore unanimous testimony to the 
sweetness and gentleness and courtesy of the small lady 
who received them at his house. It was noticed, it is 
true, that she was very quiet and reserved at times and 
that occasionally, when she had somehow withdrawn out 
of the parlor circle, and sat by herself silent and distraite 
her husband would follow her with anxious looks, and 
would even go to her side and endeavor to wean her 
back into the common talk. As for his affection for her, 
and pride in her rare beauty and accomplishments, and 
devotion to her, all were the subject of admiration and 
encomium among the women of many households. He 
never sought to conceal his sentiments on that score. 
On the rare occasions when he visited a friend’s house 
without her, all his talk was of Coquette, and her good- 
ness and her gentle ways. Then he endeavored to draw 
around her as many friends as possible, so that their 
society might partly supply the void caused by his pro- 
fessional absences ; but Coquette did not care for new 
acquaintances, and declared she had always plenty of 
occupation for herself while he was away, and did not 
wish the distraction of visits. 

Down in the old Manse of Airlie the Minister 'heard 
of his son and of Coquette through the reports of many 
friends ; and he was rejoiced beyond measure. Lady 
Drum was so affected by her own description of the 
happiness of these two young people that in the middle 
of her narration she burst into tears ; and a sort of sob' 
at the door might have let the Minister know that Leezi- 
beth had been listening. The Minister, indeed, paid' a 
brief visit to Glasgow some few weeks after Coquette’s 
return, and was quite overwhelmed by the affectionate 
attentions of his daughter-in-law. 

“ Surely,” he said to Lady Drum, the evening before 


A DA UG1/7'ER OF HE TH. 


357 


ne went away— “ surely the Lord has blessed this house. 
It has never been my good fortune to dwell under a roof 
that seemed to look down on so much of kindliness and 
charitable thoughts and well-doing ; and it would ill be- 
come me not to say how much of this I attribute to her 
who is now more than ever a daughter to me.” 

“ When I come to speak of "her,” said Lady Drum, 
“ and of the way she orders the house, and of her kind- 
ness to every one around her, and of her conduct towards 
hey husband, I am fair at a loss for words.” 

The bruit of all these things reached even down to 
Airlie, and the Schoolmaster was at length induced, be- 
ing in Glasgow on a certain occasion, to call on the 
Minister’s son. The Whaup received his old enemy 
with royal magnanimity ; compelled him to stop the night 
at his house ; gave him as much toddy as was good for an 
elder ; while Coquette, at her husband’s request, left her 
fancy-work and played for them some old Scotch airs. 
By and by she left them to themselves ; and, warmed 
with the whiskey, the Schoolmaster imparted a solemn 
and mysterious secret to his remaining companion. 

“ You are a young man, sir, and have no knowledge, 
or, as I may term it, experience, of the great and won- 
derful power of public opeenion. Nor yet, considering 
your opportunities, is it likely, or, as one might say, 
probable, that ye pay sufficient deference to the reputa- 
tion that your neebors may accord ye. Nevertheless, 
sir, reputation is a man’s public life, as his own breath is 
his private life. Now, I will not conceal from ye, Mr. 
Thomas, that evil apprehensions are entertained, or even, 
one might say, expressed, in your native -place, regarding 
one who holds an important position as regards your 
welfare ” 

With which the Whaup bounced up from his chair. 

“ Look here ! ” said he. “ Do you mean my wife, 
Mr. Gillespie ? Don’t think I care a rap for the drivel- 
ling nonsense that all the old women in Airlie may talk ; 
but if a man mentions anything of the kind to me, by 
Jove ! I’ll pitch him over the window ! ” 

“ Bless me ! ” cried the Schoolmaster, also risiag, and 


358 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


putting his hands before his face as if to defend himself. 
“ What’s the use o’ such violence ? I meant no harm. 
On the contrary, I was going to say, man, that it would 
be my bounden duty when I get back to Airlie to set my 
face against all such reports, and testify to the great 
pleasure I have experienced in seeing ye mated wi’ such 
a worthy and amiable and ” 

Here the Schoolmaster’s encomium was cut short by 
the entrance of Coquette herself, who had returned for 
something she had forgotten ; and a more acute observer 
might have noticed that no sooner was her footfall heard 
at the door than all the anger fled from the Whaup’s 
face, and he only laughed at Mr. Gillespie’s protestations 
of innocence. 

“You must forgive me,” said the Whaup, good-na- 
turedly. “ You know I married one of the daughters of 
Heth, and so I had to expect that the good folks at Air- 
lie would be deeply grieved.” 

“ A daughter of Heth ! ” said Mr. Gillespie. “ Indeed, 
I remember that grumbling body, Andrew Bogue, makin’ 
use o’ some such expression on the very day ye were 
married ; but if the daughters o’ Heth were such as she 
is, Rebekah need not have put herself about, or, in other 
words, been so apprehensive of her son’s future.” 

And the Schoolmaster was as good as his word, and 
took down to Airlie such a description of the Whaup 
and his bride as became a subject of talk in the village 
for many a day. And so the patience and the gentleness 
of Coquette bore their natural fruit, and all men began 
to say all good things of her. 

There was one man only who regarded this marriage 
with doubt, and sometimes with actual fear, who was 
less sure than all the others that Coquette was happy, 
and who regarded her future with an anxious dread. 
That one man was the Whaup himself. With a slow 
and sad certainty, the truth dawned on him that he had 
not yet won Coquette’s love, that he was powerless to 
make her forget that she had married him in order to 
please him, and that, behind all her affectionate and 
friendly demonstrations towards himself, there lay over 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


359 


her a weight of despair. The discovery caused him no 
paroxysm of grief, for it was made gradually ; but in time 
it occupied his constant thoughts, and became the dark 
shadow of his life. For how was he to remove this 
barrier that stood between himself and Coquette ? The 
great yearning of love he felt towards her was powerless 
to awaken any response but that mute, animal-like faith- 
fulness and kindliness that lay in her eyes whenever she 
regarded him. And it was for her, rather than for him- 
self, that he was troubled. He had hurried on the mar- 
riage, hoping a change of scene and of interest would 
break in on the monotony of sadness that was evidently 
beginning to- tell on the girl’s health. He had hoped, 
too, that he would soon win her over to himself by cut* 
ting her away from those old associations. What was 
the result ? He looked at the pale and calm face, and 
dared not confess to himself all that he feared. 

One evening, entering suddenly, he saw that she 
tried to avoid him and get out of the room. He play- 
fully intercepted her, and found, to his astonishment, 
that she had been crying. 

“ What is the matter, Coquette ? ” he said. 

“ Nothing ” she answered. “ I was sitting by myself, 
and thinking, that is all.” 

He took both her hands in his, and said, with an 
infinite sadness in his look, — 

“ Do you know, Coquette, that for some time back I 
have been thinking that our marriage has made you 
miserable.” 

“ Ah, do not say that ! V she said, piteously looking 
up in his face. “ I am not miserable, if it has made you 
happy.” 

“ And do you think I can be happy when I see you 
trying to put a good face on your' wretchedness, and yet 
with your eyes apparently looking on the next world all 
the time? Coquette, this is driving me mad. What can 
I do to make you happy ? Why are you so miserable ? 
Won’t you tell me ? You know I won’t be angry, what- 
ever it is. Is there nothing we can do to bring you 
back to the old Coquette, that used to be so bright and 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TIL 


360 

cheerful ? Coquette, to look at you going about from 
day to day in that sad and resigned way, never com- 
plaining, and always pretending to be quite content, I 
can’t bear it, my darling.” 

“ You must not think that I am miserable,” she said, 
very gently, and then she left the room. He looked 
after her for a moment, and then he sank into a chair, 
and covered his face with his hands. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

THE CHURCHYARD ON AIRLIE MOOR. 

At last it occurred to him that Coquette ought to be 
told of Lord Earlshope’s death. He did not even con- 
fess to himself the reason why such a thought arose in 
his mind, but endeavored, on the contrary, to persuade 
himself that there was no further need for holding back 
that old secret. He and Coquette were down to Airlie 
at the time, on their first visit after their marriage. 
The Minister was anxious to see his daughter-in- 
law ; and the Whaup, while she stayed there, would take 
occasional runs down. So Coquette was staying at the 
Manse. 

“ I cannot get her to go out as she used to do,” said 
the Minister, the first time the Whaup got down from 
Glasgow. “ She seems better pleased to sit at the window 
by herself and look over the moor, and Leezibeth tells me 
she is in very low spirits, and does look not particularly 
well. It is a pity she dislikes going out ; it is with 
difficulty I can get her even into the garden, and once 
or twice she has shown a great repugnance to going 
anywhere near Earlshope, so you must not propose to 
go in that direction in asking her to accompany you.” 

Then the Whaup said, looking down, “ You know 
she is not aware of Lord Earlshope having been drowned, 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


361 


and she may be afraid of meeting him. Suppose we 
tell her of what happened to the yacht ?” 

“ I am of opinion it would be most advisable,” said 
the Minister. 

The Whaup got Coquette to go out arid sit in the 
garden ; and there, while they were by themselves, he 
gently told her of the loss of the Caroline . The girl 
did not speak nor stir, only she was very pale, and he 
noticed that her hand was tightly clenched on the arm 
of the wooden seat. By and by she rose and said, — 

“ I should like to walk down to Saltcoats, if you will 
come.” 

“ To Saltcoats!” said her husband. “ You are not 
strong enough to walk all that way and back, Coquette.” 

“ Very well,” she said, submissively. 

“ But if you very much want to go, we could drive, 
you know,” said he. 

“ Yes, I should like to go,” she said. 

So the Whaup, late as it was in the afternoon, got 
out the dogcart, and drove her away to the old-fashioned 
little seaport town which they had together visited in 
bygone years. He put the horse up at the very inn 
that he and Coquette had visited, and then he asked 
her if she wished to go for a stroll through the place. 
Her slightest wish was a command to him. They went 
out together, and insensibly she led him down to the 
long bay of brown sand on which a heavy sea was now 
breaking. She had spoken but little ; her eyes were 
wistful and absent, and she seemed to be listening to 
the sound of the waves. 

“ It blows too roughly here, Coquette,” said he. 
“ You won’t go down on the beach ? ” 

“ No,” she said. “ Here I can see more, and hear 
more.” 

For a considerable time she stood and looked far 
over the heaving plain of water, which was a dark green 
color under the cloudy evening sky. And then she 
shuddered slightly, and turned to go away. 

“You are not vexed with me for coming ?” she 
said, “ And you know why I did come .’ 5 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


3 ^ 


' I am not vexed with anything you do, Coquette,” 
said he ; “ and I hope the drive will do you good.” 

“ It is his grave,” she said, looking once more over 
the stormy plain of waves. “ It is a terribie grave, for 
there are voices in it, and cries, like drowning people, 
and yet one man out there would go do vn and down, 
and you would hear no voice. I am afraid of the sea.” 

“ Coquette,” said he, “ why do you tremble so ? You 
must come away directly, or you will catch cold ; the 
wind blows so fiercely here.” 

But on their way back to Airlie this trembling had 
increased to violent fits of shuddering ; and then, all at 
once, Coquette said faintly, — 

“ I do feel that I should wish to be still and go to sleep. 
Will you put me down by the roadside, and leave me 
there awhile, and you can go on to Airlie ? ” 

“ Why, do you know what you are saying, Coquette? 
Go on to Airlie, and leave you here ? ” 

She did not answer him ; and he urged on the pony 
with all speed, until at length they reached the Manse. 

“ Tom,” she said, “ I think you must carry me in.” 
He lifted her down from the vehicle, and carried 
her like a child into the house ; and then, when Leezibeth 
came with a Mght, he uttered a slight cry in finding 
that Coquette was insensible. But presently life re- 
turned to her, and a quick and flushed color sprang to 
her face. She was rapidly got to bed, and the Minister, 
who had a vivid recollection of that feverish attack 
which she had suffered in the North, proposed that a 
doctor from Saltcoats should be sent for. 

“ And I will telegraph to Dr. Menzies,” said the 
Whaup, scarcely knowing what he said, only possessed 
by some wild notion that he would form a league to 
drive off this subtle enemy that had approached Coquette 
All that followed that memorable evening was a 
dream to him. He knew, because he was told, and be- 
cause he himself could see, that the fever was laying 
deeper and deeper hold on a system which was danger- 
ously weak. Day after day he went about the house, 
and as Coquette got worse he scarcely re lized it. It 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH. 


363 

was more to him as if a weight out of the sky were 
crushing down the world, and as if all things were slow- 
ly sinking into darkness. He was not excited nor wild 
with grief ; but he sat and watched Coquette’s eyes, 
and seemed not to know the people who came into the 
room or whom he met on the stairs. 

The girl, in her delirium, had violent paroxysms of 
terror and shuddering, in which she seemed to see a 
storm rising around her and waves threatening to over- 
whelm her, and then no one could soothe like her hus- 
band. His mere presence seemed enough, for the old 
instinct of obedience still remained with her, and she 
became submissively quiet and silent in answer to his 
gentle entreaties. 

“You are very good to me,” she said to him, one 
evening, recognizing him, although the delirium had not 
left her, “ and I cannot thank you for it, but my mam- 
ma will do that when you come up to our house. We 
shall not stop in this country always ? — when mamma 
is waiting for me in the garden, just over the Loire, 
you know. And she has not seen you, but I will take 
you up to her, and say you have been very, very kind to 
me. I wish they would take us there soon, for I am 
tired, and I do think this country is very dark, and the 
sea is so dreadful round about it. It goes round about 
it like a snake, that hisses and raises its fierce head, and 
it has a white crest on its head, and eyes of fire, and you 
see them glaring in the night-time. But one can get 
away from it, and hide close and quiet in the church- 
yard on the moor; and when you come in, Tom, by the 
small gate, you must listen, and whisper * Coquette,’ 
you know, just as you used to do when I lay on the sofa, 
and you wished to see if I were awake ; and if I cannot 
speak to you, it will be very hard, but I shall know you 
have brought me some flowers. And you will say to 
yourself, ‘ My poor Coquette would thank me if she 
could.’ ” 

He laid his hand on her white fingers. He could 
not speak. 

By and by the delirium left and the fever abated, 


364 


A DAUGHTER OF HETH- 


but the frail system had been shattered, and all around 
saw that she was slowly sinking. One night she beck- 
oned her husband to come nearer, and he went to her, 
and took her thin hand in his. 

“ Am I going to die, Tom ? ” she asked, in a scarcely 
audible voice ; and when, in reply, he only looked at 
her sad eyes, she said, “ I am not sorry. It will be bet- 
ter for you and for us all. You will forgive me for all 
that happened at Airlie when you think of me in after- 
times, and you will not blame me because I could not 
make your life more happy to you ; it was all a misfor- 
tune, my coming to this country ” 

“ Coquette, Coquette ! ” he said, beside himself with 
grief, “ if you are going to die, I will go hvith you too ; 
see, I will hold your hand, and when the gates are open 
I will not let you go, I will go with you, Coquette ! ” 
Scarcely half an hour afterwards the gates were 
opened, and she so quietly and silently passed through 
that he only of all in the room knew that Coquette had 
gone away from them and bidden a last farewell to Air- 
lie. They were startled to see him fling his arms in 
the air, and then as he sank back into his chair a low 
cry broke from his lips, “ So near, so near ! and I can- 
not go with her too ! ” 

One day, in the early springtime, you might have 
seen a man in the prime of youth and strength, yet with 
a strangely grave and worn look on his face, enter the 
small churchyard on Airlie moor. He walked gently 
on, as if fearing to disturb the silence of the place, and 
at last he stood by the side of a grave on which were 
many spring flowers ; snowdrops and violets and white 
crocuses. He, too, had some flowers in his hand, and 
he put them at the foot of the grave ; and there were 
tears running down his face. 

“ These are for my Coquette,” he said ; “ but she 
cannot hear me any more.” 

For a little while he lingered by the grave, and then 
he turned. And, lo ! all around him was the fair and 
shining country that she had often looked on, and far 
away before him lay the sea, as blue and as still as on 


A DAUGHTER OF HE TH. 


36s 


the morning that he and Coquette were married. How 
bright and beautiful was the world that thus lay undei 
the clear sunshine, with all its thousand activities busily 
working, and its men and women joyously thinking of 
to-morrow, as if to-morrow were to be better than to- 
day. To him all the light and joy of the world seemed 
to be buried in the little grave beside him ; and that 
there was no -to-morrow that could bring him back the 
delight of the days that were. He walked to the little 
gate of the churchyard, and leaning on it, looked wist- 
fully over the great blue plain in which the mountains 
of Arran were mirrored. 

“ Why have they taken away from us the old 
dreams ? ” he said to himself, while his eyes were wet 
with bitter tears. “ If^one could only believe, as in the 
old time, tha<. Heaven was a fair and happy island lying 
far out in that western sea, how gladly would I go away 
in a boat, and try 40 find my Coquette ! Only to think 
that some day I might see the land before me, arid Co- 
quette coming down to the shore, with her face grown 
wonderful and calm, and her dark eyes full of joy and 
of welcome. Only to believe that, only to look forward 
to that, would be enough ; and if in the night-time a 
storm came, and I was sunk in the darkness, what mat- 
ter, if I had been hoping to the last that I should see 
my Coquette ? ” 




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